1800.] 
eas Sa 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
ON THE DEATH OF TIPPOO SAIB. 
"LE warriour bard, whofe lifted arm of old 
‘Thunder’d at Marathon, o’er Afia’s hills, 
A towering fpectre, hail’d in hymns of death 
~ And fongs of battle, Hyder’s powerful Son ; 
Who great amid the wreck of nations ftood, 
And in the wreck of nations, frowning, fell. 
When angry planets lour'd and hoftile kings, 
And high the trumpet clang’d the funeral 
knell 
Of warring hofts, and armies fank around, 
The Sultan, grafping in his iron hand, 
Wielded the doom of empires, wielsed high, 
Refiftlefs as a God, the fubject Eat 
In all its powers, and all its hundred realms. 
Though fate and heaven withftood, and earth 
and hell, 
Th’ unconquerable tyrant fcorn’d to live 
From empire fever’d, and he died a king: 
Dark as the parting ftorm heruth’d abroad, 
And fwept the world before him !— 
Warriour! like thee, the ponderous ball fhall 
know 
The clanging trumpet found its final doom, 
* Till Darknefs o’er the torm of ages rears 
His iron f{ceptre, and the nations die 5 
Like thee, the ball, by ftrength refiftlefs 
hurl’d 
To bordering chaos, drag the fates of men, 
And dimly to the wafte of hoftile ttars 
And hoftile fyftems rol] the ftately fcene 
Of thrones and powers and empires and their 
kings. JP: 
ae 
Written in the pucuESS of CHANDOS’ Woops 
at Southgate, on the Evening of the 29th day 
of May, 1799. 
WHAT penfive motrner ftrikes upon my 
ear, 
And to the wild woods tells his forrowing 
tale ? 
Whofe plaintive note calls up this ftarting 
tear ? 
*Tis thine, fweet melancholy nightingale! 
O ever grateful is thy varying note! 
( When all the bufy hum of day is gone), 
With fimple founds thou ftrain’{t thy little 
tnroat :-— 
The airy trill, the Dorian monotone, 
Yet fay. {weet bird, why breathe this fadden- 
. ing ftrain ? 
Thy foft complainings forrow a'l the grove. 
Has fate burft thro’ thy little nuptial chain, 
Or brutal man bereft thee of thy love ? 
Thou haft no veed to bow at fortune’s fhrine, 
Or wafte the bloom of life  increafe thy 
ftore ; 
O were my deftiny fo blefs’d as thine, 
I would not afk the gods to grant me more! 
But I, denied e’en nature’s gifts to fhare, 
Doom’d in propitious Jove a curfe to find ; 
My morning days in forrow {pent and care, 
~ Maft leave earth’s greateft bappine/s behind | 
Alas! how oft thefe woods I’ve earelefs 
ftray’d, 
And mufing liften’d to each rural found t 
How oft reclin’d beneath the fummer’s fhade, 
And rapt’rous view’d the verdant fields 
around ! 
How oft, with him * on earth I held moft 
dear, 
Thefe devious paths I’ve jocund pac'd 
' along ; 
Or penfive, at the hour of eve to hear, 
Sweet Philomel, thy foft melodious fong! 
Thofe halcyon days for ever now are fled, 
And the fad memory flings around a gloom! 
Sudden he fell—he dropp’d his lovely head, 
Cropt like a May-day flower in all its 
bloom ! 
But what avails all grief and idle tears ? 
They'll ne’er revive his cold forfaken clay 5 
Nor will the boafted heaven of future years 
tes the paff gloom, to hope a brighter. 
aye 
' 
The far-off village bells with jocund found 
Fill the dark air as with fome magie 
charm 3 
And fwing their gentle cadence all around, 
To glad the penfive, ruffled fpirits calm. 
O could they foothea foul eftranged from ret, 
Or ftay the throbbings of a woe-worn heart! 
Could they affuage the anguihh of my breatt, 
Then in thefe ruftic joys I'd bear a part § 
But Cynthia now withholds her phofphor ray, 
Nor fheds around her foft religious light : 
Farewell, {weet woods! I haften far aways 
And clofe all hope of future joy, in night ! 
Temple. ean Icnortus. 

TO AN EARLY SNOW-DROP, 
In the Manner of Burns, the Ayrfhire Bard, 
]_UR’D by the fmile of foft’ring heav’n, 
The modeft fnow-drop of the vale, 
Steals timid thro” the dindred {nows around, 
And bows her bofom to the paffing gale. 
Ah, feek again, {weet flow’r, the earth’s fond 
breaft ; 
For here thy tender form fhall never reft. 
Chill blows the ftorm around the flow’r, 
The fun his partial beam wi’draws ; 
Trembling fhe fees the tempeft low’r, 
And, fick’ning at the hoarfe winds’ dra, 
Drops her white head, and fhuts her weary’d 
ee 5 
And foon by ftorms uptorn her faded beauties 
, fee! 

* par. George Cadogan Morgan, of South- 
gate, an ornament to the world ; who, but 
for fome tender lines (imitated from the 
‘© Quis defiderio fit pudor,’* &c. of Horace) 
which appeared in the Morning Chronicle, 
had died unfung, but, Oh! not unlamented ! 
“Ehkeu ! 66 meminiffe dolor, oblivifci nefas 1” 
Child 
a 
