522 
Whofe form fo much belov’d, hath ftill the 
w’r, 
With Giectels {miles to cheer the darkeft 
-hour : 
Doft thou, inaeed, my lonely fteps attend, 
And o’er me now with kind compaifion bend 5 
Anxious with all a mother’s love t’ impart 
A balm to foothe the forrows of my heart? 
Might I indulge the with that thou wert 
near 5 
Blef Spiric! might I now behold thee here 5 
Such as thou art, array’d in garments 
bright, 
Or fuch as memory views with fond delight: 
I dare believe, my heart with glad furprife 
Would linger here till morning beams arife; 
With ftrong defire that gentle voice to hear, 
Whofe kindnefs oft hath charm’d my infant 
ear ; 
And, fraught with tendereft love, hath lull’d 
to reft 
The little forrows of my youthful breaft. 
It mvft not be! I look around in vain— 
Darknefs profound, and awful filence reign 
O’er all this gloomy -fcene, which feems to - 
lie . 
Entomb’d beneath the fable-vaulted fky. 
Oh! when fhall this imprifon’d foul of mine 
Burft from its dark abode with pow’rs di- 
vine, 
And meet with thofe I love, on that blef& 
fhore, 
Where forrow, pain, and death are known ho 
more. 
Oh! let my foul with hopeful patience fay, 
«« Thy will be done!” and wais that awful 
day, 
That bids my fpirit wing its wond'rous flight, 
From this dark world to realms of pureft 
light ; 
With rapturous joy, to share the glorious 
prize 
Of immortality beyond the fkies! 
ALBERT, 
Winkfeld, Wilts, Sept. 28, 1804. 
I 
LINES 
recited at @ DINNER given by the cen- 
TRAL MUSEUM cf ARTS af PARIS, 
to BENJAMIN WEST, ESQ. PRESIDENT 
ef the ROYAL ACADEMY of Ltonpon, 
( From the French of Fas. Lawallée.) 
YES, when our walls the glitt’ring pomp 
conicis’d, 
When Triumph came, in claffic glory drefs*d, 
And Art exulting witha proud furprize, 
Jn Paris faw its long-loft Athens rife ; 
My Mufe, ambitious, fird with Honour’s 
charms, 
Around its heroes call’d her country’s arms, 
And o’er our gates in charaéters of fame 
The dawn of Genius told and Viétory’s lau- 
> sell’d fame. 
The dawn awakes! lo, refting from the 
Wary. 
The German, proud of many a Reman fear, 
Original Poetry. 
QOdin’s fierce fon, whofe lakes in freedom 
[Nov. 1, | 
flow, ; 
The Rufs, bright ftarting from his waftes of 
fnow, 
And he, who gave a fecond world to man, 
Souls through whofe veins immortal flames 
have ran, ; 
Whom not our arms compel but hearts en- 
S28e, 
Quench the wild flame of tranfitory rage ; 
To focial joy, to nature’s breaft return, 
And now with love, as once with hatred, 
burn. 
The nations figh’d, fer England was not 
there ; 
O ling’ring fault that gen’rous rivals fhare! 
Yet foon the olive gave her doubtful flow’r, 
And dying War, in Heav’n’s returning hour, 
To wath from each remembrance of his woes, 
Bequeath’d defcending Peace a bleft repofe. 
Franks! Britons! why, enamour’d of the 
tomb 
Roufe ye the fates of Carthage and of Rome ? 
Have ye not both a glorious fate purfued, 
Both crufh’d the Turban, red with Chriftian 
blood ! ; ; 
Have ye not fought great Cafar to the waves, 
And dragg’d the fpoiler from your father’s- 
graves ! 
O, defiin’d both to fan th? immortal flame, 
That burfts from genius and the thirft of 
fame 5 
One toil for freedom, one unehaneg’d renown, 
Has made ye, Britons, brothers all our own j 
For ever boaft thefe proud refulgent ties, - 
A bright example to the good and wife. 
Sons of immortal Art, whofe ev’ry breaft 
Is Honour’s throne, by you thefe ties be 
blefs’d: 
Go, West divine, where Thames in grandeur 
rolls, 
Waft the new hopes that fpring from Gallic 
fouls ; 
Should war rekindle all his flaming woes, 
Call to thy wond’rous {chool our gen’rous © 
foes, 
Shew them what ftreams have pour'd from 
Britith veins, 
Dyed Britith feas, and glow’d o’er Britith 
plains : 
Turn their fad looks where Woxure, the — 
conq'ror, lies, ' 
And breathes his early foul to wintry fkies : 
Tell them what tyrants crowd the train of 
war, 
What flames devour’d from Rome’s malig= 
nant ftar, 
Muft Britons love the rivalry of arms ? 
Lead their beft paffions through the fierce 
alarms, 
Lo, the proud Chief*, in ling’ring death re~ _ 
nown’d, 
Who fear’d no pang but facred honour’s 
wound ; 
* Mr. Weft’s picture of Regulus. 
Yet 
