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No. III.

A GOOD MAN'S MONUMENT.

The pyre that burns the aged Bramin's bones
Runs cold in blood, and issues living groans,
When the whole haram with the husband dies,
And demons dance around the sacrifice.

In savage realms, when tyrants yield their breath,
Herds, flocks, and slaves, attend their lord in death j
Arms, chariots, carcasses, a horrid heap,
Rust at his side, or share his mouldering sleep.

When heroes fall triumphant on the plain;
For millions conquerM, and ten thousands slain;
For cities levell'd, kingdoms drench'd in blood,
Navies annihilated on the flood ;—
The pageantry of public grief requires
The splendid homage of heroic lyres,
And genius moulds impassion'd brass to breathe
The deathless spirit of the dust beneath,
Calls marble honour from its cavern'd bed,
And bids it live—the proxy of the dead.

Reynolds expires, a nobler chief than these;
No blood of widows stains his obsequies;
But widows' tears, in sad bereavement, fall,
And foundling voices on their father call:
No slaves, no hecatombs, his relics crave,
To gorge the worm, and crowd his quiet grave;
But sweet repose his slumbering ashes find,
As if in Salem's sepulchre enshrined,
And watching angels waited for the day
Vhen Christ should bid them roll the stone away.

Not m the fiery hurricane of strife,
'Midst slaughter'd legions, he resign'd his life;
But peaceful as the twilight's parting ray,
His spirit vanish'd from its house of clay,
And left on kindred souls such power imprest,
They seem'd with him to enter into rest.
Hence no vain pomp, his glory to prolong,
No airy immortality of song;
No sculptured imagery, of bronze or stone,
To make his lineaments for ever known,
Reynolds requires:—his labours, merits, name,
Demand a monument of surer fame;
Not to record and praise his virtues past,
But show them living, while the world shall last;
Not to bewail one Reynolds, snatch'd from earth
But give, in every age, a Reynolds birth;
In every age a Reynolds, born to stand
A prince among the worthies of the land,
By Nature's title, written in his face:
More than a prince—a sinner saved by grace,
Prompt, at his meek and lowly Master's call,
To prove himself the minister of all.

Bristol! to thee the eye of Albion turns;
At thought of thee thy country's spirit burns;
For in thy walls, as on her dearest ground,
Are " British minds and British manners" found
And, 'midst the wealth which Avon's waters pour
From every clime on thy commercial shore,
Thou hast a native mine of worth untold;
Thine heart is not encased in rigid gold,
Wither'd to mummy, steel'd against distress;
No—free as Severn's waves, that spring to bless
Their parent hills, but as they roll expand
In argent beauty through a lovelier land,
And widening, brightening to the western sun,
In floods of glory through thy channel run;
Thence, mingling with the boundless tide, are hurl'd
In Ocean's chariot round the utmost world:

I

Thus flow thine heart-streams, warm andunconfiued,
At home, abroad, to woe of every kind.
Worthy wert thou of Reynolds ;—worthy he
To rank the first of Britons even in thee.
Reynolds is dead ;—thy lap receives his dust
Until the resurrection of the just:
Reynolds is dead; but while thy rivers roll,
Immortal in thy bosom live his soul!

Go, build his monument:—and let it be
Firm as the land, but open as the sea;
Low in his grave the strong foundations lie,
Yet be the dome expansive as the sky,
On crystal pillars resting from above,
Its sole supporters—works of faith and love;
So clear, so pure, that to the keenest sight
They cast no shadow; all within be light:
No walls divide the area, nor enclose;
Charter the whole to every wind that blows;
Then rage the tempest, flash the lightnings blue,
And thunders roll,—they pass unharming through,

One simple altar in the midst be placed,
With this, and only this, inscription graced,
The song of angels at Immanuel's birth,—
"Glory to God! good-will and peace on earth."
There be thy duteous sons a tribe of priests,
Not offering incense nor the blood of beasts,
But with their gifts upon that altar spread;
Health to the sick, and to the hungry bread,
Beneficence to all, their hands shall deal,
With Reynolds' single eye and hallow'd zeal.
Pain, want, misfortune, thither shall repair;
Folly and vice, reclaim'd, shall worship there
The God of him—in whose transcendent mind
Stood such a temple, free to all mankind:
Thy God, thrice-honour'd city! bids thee raise
That fallen temple, to the end of days:
Obey His voice; fulfil thine high intent;
Yea, be thyself the Good Man's Monument f

"By all the terrors of the tomb,
Beyond the power of tongue to tell!
By the dread secrets of my womb!

By Death and Hell!

"I charge thee, Live!—repent and pray;
In dust thine infamy deplore;
There yet is mercy; go thy way,

And sin no more.

"Art thou a Mourner?—Hast thou known
The joy of innocent delights I
Endearing days for ever flown,

And tranquil nights /

"O Live !— and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past:
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last