MAN Speaker. The praise attending pomp and power, Are but the trappings of an hour- The base bestow them; but the good agree When titles are the smallest claim; When wealth and rank and noble blood, But aid the power of doing good; Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns to fame. Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb; E'en now reproach and faction mourn, Alas! they never had thy hate; Thy towering mind self-centred stood, SONG. By a MAN. Virtue, on herself relying, And ev'ry shock that malice offers, WOMAN Speaker. Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate- Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, Nor did the cruel ravagers design To finish all their efforts at a blow; But, mischievously slow, They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine. With unavailing grief, Despairing of relief, Her weeping children round, Beheld each hour Death's growing power, And trembled as he frown'd. As helpless friends who view from shore They stood, while hope and comfort fail, The inevitable loss. Relentless tyrant, at thy call How do the good, the virtuous fall! Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, SONG. By a MAN. When vice my dart and scythe supply, If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, MAN Speaker. Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, When they have journey'd through a world of cares, Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, May oft distract us with their sad solemnity; The preparation is the executioner. Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance; For as the line of life conducts me on To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. In that secure, serene retreat, Where all the humble, all the great, Promiscuously recline; Where wildly huddled to the eye, The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, SONG. By a WOMAN. Lovely, lasting Peace below, Heav'nly born, and bred on high, WOMAN Speaker. Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes, Celestial-like her bounty fell Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell; Want pass'd for merit at her door, Unseen the modest were supplied, Her constant pity fed the poor, Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine, And art exhausts profusion round, A simple song, a sigh profound. There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray To dwell a weeping hermit there. Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree, To blend their virtues while they think of thee. AIR.-CHORUS. Let us, let all the world agree, PART II. OVERTURE.-Pastorale. MAN Speaker. Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream Reflects new glories on his breast, Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, There sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, |