2.26 
Ah, left alone beneath the dreadful gloom, 
Companion of the te mpett | left ‘alone ! 
J fee thee, fad-reclining o'er the tomb, 
A pallid form, and wedded to the fone! 
Ah ! what avails it, Sorrow’s gentleft child, 
To wet th’ unfruitful urn with many a tear; 
To call on Edward’s name with accents wild, 
Ané¢ bid his phantom from the grave appvar? 
No zliding fpirits {kim the dreary ground, 
Drefs the green turf, or animate the gloom ; 
No foft aérial mufic alk around, 
Nor voice of fadnefs murmurs from the tomb. 
Cold is the breaft that glow’d with love, and pale 
The cheek that, like the morning, blifh’d 
betore : 
Mute are the lips that told the flattering tale, 
And raylefs is the eye that flatter’d more. 
Deep, deep beneath the dark myfterious grave, 
Thy tears he fees not, nor can hear thy ‘Gehs! 
D:af is thine Edward, as the Atlantic wave, 
Cold as the blaft that rends the polar fkies. 
Oh ! turn, and feek fome fheltering, kind retreats 
Bleak con isthe wind,and Tea is the dew: 
No pitymisg fta 2 Ke guide thy “weary feet, 
pea thro’ the void of darkuefs on thy vicw: 
ave 
Think oa the dangers that attend thy way ; 
The gulf deep yawning, and the treacherous 
flood ; 
The midnight t rufhan prowling for his prey, 
Fiend of defpair and’ darknefs, grim’ with 
blood ! 
But, on! if thoughts terrific fail to move, 
Let Pi ty win thee back to thine abode ; 
Melt at a fitter’s tears, a mother’s love. 
Awd by the voice of Reafon, and of God! 
Chrijt Call, Cuzn. e NWicHoLas BULL. 
rE GEE 
DOCTOR A—— FO DOC ROR. 
WRITTEN IN 1793. 
Bee ai 
Quid bellicofus Cantaber, Sc. Hor. 
Co MIE, a truce, my dear friend, to the politic 
ftrain ; 
Enouzh Ap reforming, and Burke, and, Tom 
Paine - 
Leave the. French to their fate, the Allies to 
their plundei, 
And ceafe atuman’s folly and madnefs to wonder. 
What, alas! can we do? we may fret out our 
liv YESS 
And plague with long faces our children and 
Wives : 
But to root from our ifle half the ills that in- 
feft her, 
Afks a Herculus’ ftrength, andthe years of a 
Neftor. 
The {pring days of youth, how they gallop 
away ! 
See, my head is grown bald, and your hair is 
turn’d grey. 
‘ihe Loves and the Graces take wing with the 
{wallow, 
And fport, joy, and Trolley a are €a_er to follow. 
Ori ginal Poetry. 
[ April 
Oh! let us arreft them, ere yet they are gone! . 
A forehead of frowns will but haften them on : 
If fhort be our {pan,, be contraéted our troubles, 
For a bubble of care is the worft of all bubbles. 
How I !onz ali at eafe on the turf to be laid, 
Where high o'er my head waving trees mix 
, their fhade; ; 
Where flowers all around their rich fragrance 
— 
And thro’ the rapt fenfes joy flows to the heart. 
Here Anacreon and Herace the hours fhall pro- 
long, 
And teach me that life is no more than a fong; 
Or a friend of my youth fhall partake the full 
bow], 
While a tae of paft pleafure wafts blifs thro’ 
the foul. 
In the midfi of our chat, if fome charmer be feen, 
With treffes !oofe-flowin:, to trip o’er the green, 
We'll challenge her health in a glafs running o’er, 
And join the dear name with our Chloes of yore. 
Such the gay-coloured draught of my fummer 
Gefires, 
While Fency but paints as Remembrance in- 
Lpiress 
But once give her flight, and all bounds fhe 
forfakes, 
And joins your blithe troop in a Your to the 
Lakss. 
ee Ee 
TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF A 
DECEASED FRIEND. 
r, Roscog, of LivERPooL, Author of 
ake Life of Lo-enzo de Medici. ) 
To enjoy the Rewards of a happier State, 
And to live in the Memory of his furviving 
Friends, 
On ihe Fifth Day of December, 1795, departed 
th.s Life 
EDWARD ROGERS, 
CfEverton, Merchant, aged 45 Years. 
MORTAL, from von lower fphere, 
Ere eternal joys thou fhare, 
Are thy earthly duties done, 
Hutband, father, friend, and fon? 
(By M 
Haft thou o’er a parent’s head, 
Drops of filial fondnefs fhed ? 
What the pleafuare—haft thou prov’d, 
?Tis to love and to be lov’d? 
Haft thou, with delighted eyes, 
Seen thy num’rous offspring rife? 
Haft thou in the paths of truth 
Led their inexperienc’d youth? 
Didft thou e’cr in fadnefs bend, 
O’er the forrows of a friend ? 
Didit thou haften, unappall’d, 
When thy finking country call’d 3 ? 
Hufband, father, friend, and fon, 
Weil thy journey haft thou run ; 
Life has known its bett employ, 
Sown in virtue, reap’d it joy. 
A CORRECT 
