THE SLAVE. YE wild winds of Heaven how dreadful you rave, While thunder stalks forth from his echoing cave, The mariner starts at the heart-rending sound, Alas! to his bosom is nature still dear? Can the rapture of friendship, the bliss of a tear, Yes! the heart-thrilling hopes of a far distant wife, But welcome ye storms to the fetter-bound slave, Oppression ne'er frowns on the realms of the grave, Ye band of oppressors, yon vast mountain wave, Is big with destruction, no efforts can save, Dear shades of my parents I hasten to you, But know, to this breast, e'er I murmur'd adieu, GLASGOW. J. W. EPIGRAMS. OLD HARPY jeers at castles in the air, And thanks his stars, whenever EDMUND speaks, That such a dupe, as that, is not his heir But know, old HARPY! that these fancy freaks, Tho' vain and light, as floating gossamer, Always amuse, and sometimes mend the heart: A young man's idlest hopes are still his pleasures, And fetch a higher price in Wisdom's mart Than all the unenjoying Miser's treasures. HERE lies the Devil-ask no other name. same. ΕΣΤΗΣΕ. FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTEUS. MUTE are my chords when beauty claims the song, Or kingly grace, or limbs of giant mould; No grace of mine extols the honey'd tongue, The racer's swiftness, or the gleam of gold. My theme's the youth who views with steady eyes Blest by his country's praise, his parent's smile, With sinewy arm he stems the wave of war, Where danger frowns, amid the bloody fray. And falls the youth ?-he falls, his country's joy,His father's pride,-who tells each honest wound, Points to the fissur'd buckler of his boy, And smiles in tears, while all his praise resound. His childrens' children, bending o'er his tomb, Shall date their glories from his honour'd name; Thus, wrapt in earth, he scapes the vulgar doom, And lives for ever in the rolls of fame. P. F. EPITAPH, In Chiswick Church, on a Youth of Fifteen. BY ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ. IF in the morn of life each winning grace, Yet still thy image fond affection keeps, CANZONET. BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT. O BEST belov'd! could I but gain Nor would I ask kind Heaven for more. I wish not realms my sway to own, Let Empire break Ambition's rest; No splendid robes, no gems of pride, Sweet maid indeed, I would not grieve From thee, one tender, cheering smile. |