1816.] 



Original Poetry, 



239 



strcno^thened by tbe consideration that 

 auch inanul'iictarcrs are not prepared by 

 llie actual uiid resident red men of llie 

 present day. It" tlie Abbe Ciaviofero 

 Lad had tliis case before him, !ie would 



have thought of the people who con- 

 structed those ancient forts and mounds, 

 whose exact histoiy no man living cai\ 

 give. 



J. Mitchell. 



ORIGINAL POETRY. 



LINES 



BY A MOTHER, ON BEINO URGED TO 

 MODERATE HER GRIEF FOR THE SUD- 

 DKN LOSS OF AN ADORED CHILD. 



YOU bid me hope — you say I yet may know 

 Peace and contentment in this world 



below ; 

 That other children claim my fost'ring ctre, 

 That 'tis unjust to them, to court Despair! 

 These truihs 1 own — yet painfully I find 

 'Tis vain to reason with a wounded mind ; 

 Feeling usurps the seat where Reason reign'd. 

 And, joined by Memory, keeps the throne she 



gain'd; 

 For Memory, Grief's first and truest friend. 

 Forbids each torturing scene to have an end — 

 Now shews my child in Beauty's blaze dis- 



play'd, 

 Now on the bed of Death it shews her laid ! 

 Now lisps her accents to my list'ning ear, 

 Her last sad accents — when she murmured 



"Diar!"* 

 Now in the mazy dance it fhews her form ; 

 Now playing on the daisy-spangled lawn : 

 These, and a thousand oihers, Memory bhews, 

 Till Nature sinks exhausted to repose ; 

 But e'en in sleep my eyes the vision trace. 

 And gaze with raptur« on her beauteous face- 

 That Face and Form which might with zeal 



inspire 

 The painter's pencil, or the minstrel's iyre ! 

 Oh, could my pen her lovely form pounray, 

 And shew her smile, sweet as the opening 



day, — 

 You sure would own that I have cause for 



grief, 

 And that 'tis Time alone can bring relief. 



To thee, O God ! my heart in prayer I bend, 

 For thou art still the wretched mourner's 



friend ; 

 Thou can'st restore my wounded soul to 



peace. 

 Or tike me to that Heaven — where sorrows 



cease! Ji. P. 



Uolluway i July 8, 1816. 



STANZAS, 



•WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 

 TNvain I court refreshing sleep, 

 -■- For me no vision's near ; 

 By Night's sad shades unseen I weep. 

 Unheard by Pity's ear. 



How fleeting is each earthly joy. 



Each earthly wish how vain I 

 No picasurei spring without alloy, 



" No joy without its pain." 



• The fond appellation by which slie al- 

 ways addrcbsed her mo;hcr, and the last 

 W^i «fee vuftci- 



In buxom health to-day I rose, 



'Mid verdant fields to stray; 

 I little thought the scene would close. 



And Sickness choak my way ! 



How great a change I while here I lay 



And mu'-e upon the past, 

 O'erwhelm'd wiili grief, to pain a prey> 



Each hope it seems to blast. 



O hear, great God I a sinner's prayer. 



Nor let thy love decrease ; 

 Take me this night into thy care. 



And let me rest in peace. 



But, if no more on me shall shine 



The sun's meridian rays, 

 "Thy will be done"— that will be mine— 



For just are all thy ways ! 



Forbid e'en Friendship's tear to flow 



Around my youthful bier ; 

 Nor swell those hearts with bitter woe, 



I e'er have lov'd so dear. 



To thee, my God ! I suppli'nt cry» 



O listen to my prayer : 

 Accept, accept, Contruion's sigh, 



And take me to thy care. 



Innocsmtia» 



A BALLAD. 



[The story of this ballad is traditionary in 

 a villrti;e at the foot of Snowd'Hi, whera 

 Llewtlljn the Great had a lionse — the 

 grev hound named Gelert was given te 

 bun by his father-in-law, Kiiii; John, in 

 the year 1 W3 ; and the place to this day- 

 is called Beih Gelert, or the Grave uf 

 Gelert.] 



'"PHE spearman heard the bugle sound, 

 -*- And cheerly smil'd the morn. 

 And many a brack and many a hound 

 Obey'd Llewellyn's horn. 



And still he blew a louder blast. 



And gave a lustier cheer, 

 " Come, Gelert, come, wer't never last 



Llewellyn's horn to hear. 



" Oh I where does faithful Gelert roam. 



The flow'r of all his race, 

 So true— so brave, a lanjbat home, 



A lion in thechace." 



'Twas only at Llewellyn's board 



The faithful Gelert fed. 

 He watch'd, he serv'd, he checr'd his lord, 



And sentincl'd his bed. 



In sooth he was a peerless hound, 



'i'he gift of royal John. 

 Dut now no Gilert cou'd be founJ, 



And ail the ckacc rode on. 



