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; 
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400 Original Poetry. 
Ev'n he, who heedless wastes his days 
In dissipation’s varied maze, 
Nor gives one thought to heav’n5 
Beholds her grave with secret fear, 
A moment checks his wild career, 
And hopes his sins forgiv’n. 
There, while I press the sacred clay, 
Sai Philomel, in plaintive Jay, 
To melancholy dear, 
Nightly from yonder beechen shade, 
In strains to tender musing made, 
Delights my list’ning ear. 
"There too, the favour’d red-breast sings, 
fend prunes his olive-colour’d wings: 
And pecks his wonted food; 
And, fearless where her relics rest, 
Forms in the verdant turf his nest, 
And rears his little brood. 
Whe turtle there, whose constant cares 
No second partner ever sharesy 
Loves his lost mate to pine; 
Softly the grassy sod to tread, ' 
And, lonely moaning o’er her heady 
To mingle woes with mine, 
No storms disturb her blest repose ! 
Unheard the angry whirlwind blows! 
The wint’ry tempests rave! 
Sweet rest is there !—-And vernal show’rs, 
Give fresher fragrance to the flow’rs, 
Which flourish on her grave. 
There the wild woodbine scents the gale, 
[he yellow cowslip, primrose pale, 
Harebell, and violet blue; 
Sliew their pute beauties to the sky, 
Kiss’d by the zephyrs as they fly, 
And gemm’d with Heav’ns own dew. 
eHow still itis! silence profound 
Her empire holds, and spreaus around 
A pleasing, peaceful, gloom ! 
How diff’rent far this aching breast, 
Which ceaseless throbs, and pants for rest, 
And hungers for the tomb! / 
When will my fervent pray’rs prevail ? 
When will death end this weary tale 
Of lengtiren’d misery ? - 
My hopes are wreck’d! my joys are flown! 
My wishes dead! my reason gone! 
—Emma! I live with thee! 
And lo! methinks thy sainted shade, 
Points to the spot where thou art laid ! 
And where my griefs shall cease! 
Breathes on my troubled soul, a calm! 
Pours on my wounded spirits, balm ! 
And softly whispers peace. 
J come! dear long-sought maid, I come! 
Fate grants at last the ling’ring doom, 
And closes these sad eyes—= 
J soon shall quit this dreary sceney 
.Live—where no sorrows intervene, 
Aad lige-where Emma lies, ony 
o e 
—” 
[Nov. 1, 
For the Monthly Magazine. 
[The poetical world has recently lost a true 
brother in the late Dr. Downman. His 
didactic poem on Infancy will always be 
considered as a work of permanent value, 
teaching the duties of a young mother. 
His tragedies have, perhaps, not yet re- 
ceived their full measure of fame; not In- 
deed adapted for the theatre, they interest 
in the cluset; and he aims at restoring the 
noble genius of the golden age of our dra- 
matic bards, by their higher strains of feel- 
ing, combined with that familiar, yet forci- 
ble, diction requisite indramaticcomposition. 
Of this estimable poet, and most excellent 
man, I possess an unpublished critical epis- 
tle, written many years ago, when I hap~ 
pened, in the freedom of conversation, to 
-be more prodigal in my panegyrics on the 
most eloquent French authors, than his. 
taste, and more particularly his patriotism, 
approved; he was of opinion, that the light 
and tender vines of the Seine would not form 
an ornamental appendage to British oaks. 
This critical epistle I think well deserving /7 
of prescrvation ; the verses are not highly 
polished, but he was careless of the minuter 
graces of poetry; and revision was the 
only poetical labour he disliked. There is 
something noyel in the subject 5 and it is 
marked by strength of conception, while 
‘the didactic flow of the verse does not di- 
minish the truth it impresses. ] 
A CRITICAL EPISTLE to * * *, on HIS 
PARTIALITY FOR FRENCH WRITERS, 
WRITTEN IN 1791, 
By the late Dk. DOWNMAN, of Exeter, 
ie from the Gallie worthies whom you 
praise, 
My verse withholds an equal share of bays, 
Attribute it to my untravelled mind, 
Which, still within its native isle confin’d, 
Views every object there with partial sight, 
And asks no fairer region of delight. 
With polish’d manners you would join in. 
Vain 
The smut of RaBELatrs, coarseness of Mon- 
TAIGNE. 
To sage Boireau what genuine strains 
belong P 
From Horace and Tassoni flow’d his song’: 
Pope, from their open fountain likewise- 
drew 5 
What mighty thanks are to the Frenchman 
due? 
_ Before Racine, e’en in our James’s timey 
Old Beaumont taught the couplet and the 
rhime; 
Denied the stanza’s boasted power to please, 
And wrote with equal elegance and ease. 
His flowers from Montesquieu I will 
not tear, 
The wreath he merits Jet him ever wear; 
Yet, must he own, beneath our Englisk skies 
He saw the brightest and the sweetest a 5 
€8y 
