48 Original Poetry. 
And on thy roseate lips descry 
The sonl’s instinctive harmony. 
Such, Beauty !.to my gladden’d heart 
Thou still hast been, and still thou art :— 
A type, a beacon, and a guide, 
To all I sought or wish’d beside. 
Nor e’er to me be understood 
Distinction ’tween the fair and good ; 
While, in my soul’s election bless’d, 
I, in the fairest, find the best. 
21st Dec. 1825. é at i 
THE PLAGUE:— 
SUGGESTED BY READING GALT’s **ROTHELAN.” 
BY J. R. PRIOR. 
“« Brine out your dead!’’—’tis the pitman’s 
‘The ont is filling, and waiting nigh. 
Cannot Pity, or Mercy, or Love, prevail ? 
Nay, “‘ Bring out your dead ;” 
Not a word can be said: 
The plague will not listen to Sympathy’s tale. 
‘* Bring out your dead !”—the twins are not 
cold, 
Their mother’s fond fingers are clasped in 
their fold ; 
Let me get thema coffin, I'll dig thema grave. 
Thou art sickening,—thy breath 
Ts receding to death: 
The Plague will not heed whom to succour 
or save. 
« Bring out your dead!’’—that’s a fruitless 
sigh,— 
The babe and the aged together lie: 
They were dear to my heart, they were pre- 
cious and true. 
Bring them forth!—in the heap 
They will quietly sleep : 
And the Plague, lovely woman! is calling 
thee too! 
“ Bring out your dead !””—let the coffers stay : 
The waggon is stopping—we bury away ! 
But my uncle is rich, he will leave me his* 
wealth. 
*Tis a thousand to one 
If thy race be not run 
Ere the midnight : the Plague does not 
travel past health. 
«« Bring out your dead!”"—we are going to 
pray; 
No priest can we purchase, the masses to say. 
We but yesterday married—so soon must we 
die? 
Love and Beauty, they go 
To the charnel below : 
The Plague does not care, who together shall 
lie. 
« Bring out your dead!” 
and Clerk, 
We have taken with cross, book and band, 
in the dark : 
The Nun and the Lady are vaulted alike.— 
From the Bridge to Saint John 
All the orders are gone, 
And the pee is fallen by his halbert and 
pike. 
“ Bring out your dead !””—throw his armour 
aside ; 
Let the weapons be moved, with his dresses 
of pride: 
'—both the Friar 
{Feb. 1, 
Strip the gold and the jewels—the purchaser’s 
dead : 
Even the waggon so high 
Has no driver, to ply 
To the mountains of flesh by martaliiy fed, 
“ Bring out your dead !”—on the Thames— 
at the Hall; 
From the Gates to the Stairs, from the Wark 
to the Wall,— 
Who shall live, or shall die, consternation is 
wild ! 
Where a spot can be found, 
*Tis Infection’s ground ; 
And it matters not, living, who hector'd, or 
smil’d, 
** Bring out your dead !’"—the dead cannot 
hear ; 
The streets are in darkness, and silent and 
drear ; 
The houses are void, and the shutters are 
fast : 
Both the rich and the poor 
Have been brought to the door, 
And the Pitmen, together, are buried at last. 
Islington, Nov. 1824. 
HORACE, 
Ove xvi. Book uu. 
Transtatep By THE Hon. H—y W—. 
Wuen clouds obscure fair Luna’s light, 
And stars shine dimly in the night, 
The sailor, in the /Egean Seas, 
Prays to the Deities for ease. 
The Thracian, furious in the fray, 
The Median, with his quiver gay, 
For ease from Gods on High implores, 
Not to be bought by golden stores, 
Say, Grosphus, then,—can pompous state 
Chase the rude cares that haunt the great? 
Can wealth his troubled soul appease, 
Or grant him happiness or ease? 
But he lives happily, whose breast 
Stern Avarice has ne’er opprest ; 
Who lives content, from envy free, 
In peaceful mediocrity. 
So short is life, why seek for more? 
Who, exil’d from his country’s shore, 
Himself can fly?—then why from home 
To distant territories roam ? 
Care climbs the vessel brazen-keel’d, 
O’ertakes the horseman in the field ; 
Swifter it flies than swiftest hind, 
Or Eurus’ cloud-compelling wind. 
Blest is the mind that seeks no joys 
But what the present hour supplies: 
With smiles it bears the ills of life, 
Free from Contention’s noisy strife. 
Swift Death o’ertook Achilles bold, 
And Pithon felt that-he was old: 
The Gods, perhaps, denied to thee, 
May grant longevity to me. 
Sicilian cows your pastures throng, 
To you an hundred flocks belong ; 
Loud neighs for you the chariot-mare ; 
And the cerulean vest you wear. 
Amhumble love for Grecian song ; 
A soul that scorns the vulgar throng ; 
A decent, tho’ a small estate,— 
Are my inevitable fate. 
_ 
