314 
For not thy lovely light, that kindly cheers 
The fullen frown of unpropitious night ; 
Is half fo fwect as truth, 
That beams in beauty’s eyes. 
Wot all the little waking elves, that rife 
From out their rofy bow’is of velvet buds, 
Where they had flept the day, 
To dance thy rays beneath, 
Feel fuch delight as does this breaft, when thou 
With radiant luftre fhew’it the happy hour, 
That leads from feenes of care 
To ftill domeftic blrfs. 
Plymouth, May 9. 
: SEE 
SONNET 
@N LORD LANSDOWN’S LATE PARLIA-~ 
"MENTARY MOTION. 
STATESMAN ! on Truth’s firong wing that 
warning call, 
Soared from the fphere=-The peers of Syd- 
ney’s fame 
Heard, in their halls of blifs, thy voice appal 
Yon recreant crew, that plot their country’s 
fhame. 
Attetting echoes, through each confcious mind 
To thy accufing tones that inly thrill, 
Of thofe great martyrs on the fenfe refin’d 
Strike the dread watch-note of o’erhanging ill. 
And, Shelbume! fee, they bend, with refcu- 
ing arm 
' To roufe their Britain, loft in fleep profound, 
That if again thou pour the loud alarm, 
Refponfive crowds may {well the patriot found, 
Shake with awakening fhout the fields of air, 
And from their impious feaft, corruption’s vam- 
pires {care. 
Clifton, T. B. 
— 
STANZAS. 

Occafoned by Sin Epwarp PELLEW’s humane 
and magnanimous condudf, at the wreck of the 
-Dutton Tranfport, in a moft tremendous ftorm, 
en the 26th ‘fanuary 1796, under the Citadel, 
at Plymouth; where fhe had been otliged to re- 
turn, from the prevailing ficknefs of tie troops on 
board, 
K7HILE o’er the reeling wreck, the favage 
itorm 
Pour’d all its lightaings, thunders, blafis, and 
hai), 
And every horror, in its wildeft form, 
. Smote the fem heart, that never knew to 
fails 
*Twas thine, Pellew, fublimely great and good! 
Man, man, thy brother, in diftrefs !— 
to dare 
The deathful paffage of the raging flood, 
And join the frantic children of defpair: 

There, it was thine, in comfort’s balmy tone, 
To foothe their forrows, ’mid the terapeft’s 
roar 3 
& 
Original Poetry. 
[May 
To hufh the mother’s fhri¢k, the fick man’s 
groan, 
And bear the fuf’rers, trembling, to the 
fhore. 
So when this mighty orb, in dread alarm, 
Shall crafh in ruins, at its God’s decree !—=« 
The faving angel, with triumphant arm, 
Shall, from the wreck of all things, refcue 
thee. : PLYM, 
—————— 
‘ 
ODE TO TRAGEDY. 
HALL, fitter of the fable ftole ! 
Tis thine to meHorate the foul, 
To draw the tender tear from pity’s eye, 
While fuff’ring virtue heaves the length’ning 
figh, 
And groans beneath oppreffion’s rod ; 
Or filial duty weeps a parent’s woe ; 
Pale conftancy hangs o’er her urn, 
Diftra&ted love laments, from all his wifhes 
torn. 
Oh, wife viciffitudes of fate below ! 
To humble haughty man, and Lift the foul te 
Ged. 
The frantic eye, the hurrying pace, 
Th’ impreffive horrors of thy face, 
For me have more fublime delights 
Than all thy laughing fifter’s airy flights : 
When Shakfpeare bears the foul along 
In all the native majefty of fong, 
Now fires with rage, now chills with fear, 
Now melts the icy breaft with pity’s tear = 
Alike in all, oh, bard fublime ! 
Above the rankling rage of death and tume. 
But ah! what hideous forms around thee throng? 
Can thefe inftill the moral fong ? 
See Virtue finks beneath the villain’s hand f 
Succefsful Murder hails his bloody band ! 
Lo! wild Defpair’s relentlefs knife 
High raif’d againft his facred life! 
Blind Jealoufy the poifoned drug prepares! 
’Fill horror’s ftartmg eye-ball glares, 
And fquallid Tesror flies before, 
While recklefs Fury rufhes on, 
His poniard red with recking gore, 
Warm from the heart in which he liv’d alone 
’Tis paft ; ftill virtue claims thy care, 
The fev’rith reign of vice foon melts in ais, 
For, Jo! another train fucceeds, 
Avengers of atrocious deeds ! 
See purple Guilt, with look aghaft, 
By torturing paflions vexed fore, 
Poffefs’d his fou! with haggard fear, 
As confcience ftill to virtue dear 
Holds up a gloomy- picture of the paft, 
And keen remorfe #till bids him © fleep 
«¢ no more,”’_. » 
Till tears of forc’d contrition ceafelefs flow, 
And furies hurl him to the fhades below. 
Oh goddefs of the tear-fwoln eye ! 
Re facred fuftice ever nigh, 
Tn all her grizly horrors clad.! 
To tell the tyrant trembling on his throne 
He lives not for huntfelf alone, 
