But alas! when the summons to sleep with the dead,
Is signed by the merciless fingers of death,
Nor virtue, nor truth can its influence shed,
To detain for a moment the fast ebbing breath.
His soul from its cerement compelled to depart,
Winged its way to the regions of bliss and repose,
And left a loved parent in sorrow of heart,
To think on his loss, and to tell o'er his woes:
But though the fond form to his eye may be lost,
Yet shall dear mementos recall it to mind;
And the tree which by tempest and storm has been tost,
Shall with tremulous motion still wave in the wind.
E.
FOR THE R. MAGAZINE.
SONG OF GRATITUDE.
Who bade to light the morning skies,
The glorious orb of day to rise?—
Who first the waves of ocean curl'd,
And roll'd its waters round the world?—
Who bade the soil the harvest yield
And deck'd the flow'rets of the field—
From Chaos this terrestrial ball
Call'd into life?——The GOD of all.
He, within whose almighty hands
Humility supported stands,
Who with his own bestow'd our breath
And saved us from eternal death.
To him then let us joyous raise
The song of gratitude and praise,
And bless him, that his bounties flow,
In endless streams to all below;
And that his boundless grace has given,
To man—a final rest in heaven.
A.
THE HAMLET,
AN ODE BY THOMAS WARTON.
The hinds how blest who ne'er beguil'd,
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild;
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care, and guilty gain!
When morning's twilight tinctur'd beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.