254 PETER SPENCE 



An idea of the general character of these 

 may be formed from the last stanza of his 

 11 Pompeii " :- 



"The morrow comes ! But where's Pompeii now ? 

 She sat smiling 'neath Vesuvius' brow, 

 So lovely yester e'en that the bright sun 

 Lingered with her, although his course was run. 

 Hath she with sackcloth clothed her as a vow, 

 Or 'neath a covering hid her from the frown 

 Of the enraged mountain that pours 

 Its liquid lava and red ashy showers, 

 Blasting its sides where aught of life hath grown ? 

 Ah ! no ; on her Death's dismal pall is spread, 

 O'erwelming all the living 'mong the dead, 

 A sea of lava boils above her streets, 

 Upburning all its horrid rolling meets, 

 And beauteous Pompeii sleeps beneath its gloomy 

 bed." 



But it is not merely in efforts to sing the 



f lories of nature, or the great tragedies of 

 istory, or the struggles of the patriots for 

 freedom that he invokes his muse ; he can 

 delight us with a pretty ballad, "The Tale of 

 a Minstrel," or amuse us with a clever, witty 

 parody on Gray's Elegy : 



"Beneath yon rugged elms, that beech tree's shade, 

 Where rests the river o'er its pebbly bed, 

 Each in its place the finny tribe is laid 

 Till tide shall help them o'er the ford to sped. 



