When these sapient saws expire,
And slumber with old sages past;
When these frigid rules retire,

Like autumn's leaf before the blast;
When their memory is flown,
Taste shall claim him for her own.

"Often," will tradition say, "Near yon spot of sacred green, When Twilight wav'd her banner grey, Did we note his museful mien ; Now conversing with the air, Sunk anon in dumb despair.

"Strew your vernal tribute round;
Round your fading flowrets strew;
Pity, consecrate the ground
Where sleeps a breast to pity true:
So shall Genius' humble grave
Boast the honours once he gave."

TWO ELEGIAC ODES,

TO THE MEMORY OF

SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

FIRST ODE.

WHERE is the British Genius fled ?
Why starts not the poetic tear
That erst embalm'd the mighty dead,
Soft streaming o'er the warrior's bier ?
Her languid lid too long is dry;
Fell grief has froze her beamless eye;

Or sure ere this that lucid drop should flow
To wail her favour'd son, and swell the general woe.

Waked from her melancholy trance,

'Tis she! the fair aerial form

I see with solemn step advance,

Bright as the bow that girds the storm:

Yet sorrow dims the sickly grace

Faint-smiling on her faded face;

While, as she braids the ever-during wreath, Pauseful she heaves a sigh o'er conquest dash'd with death:

The song begin! my bosom glows:
Her dawning influence I feel:

The sweet elixir she bestows,

A nation's recent wound shall heal.

For, oh! methinks each gen'rous heart

Throbb'd with participated smart,

When Vengeance taught the murd'rous ball to fly, And Vict'ry dubious mark'd the veteran's bleeding thigh.

Lo! on yon column's* peak sublime
She sits, and folds her purple wing;

While, nook'd beneath, malignant Time
Aloof his scythe is forc'd to fling:

Now, half a native of the skies,
Where her undaunted hero dies,

Whilere luxurious Antony repos'd,

And in a harlot's arms long scenes of glory clos'd.

* Called by some historians the column of Severus.

But who is he of sterner brow,
Emerg'd from central caves of night,
Whose ghostly features seem to glow,
And kindle at the furious fight?

His dull eye darts a transient gleam;
Scarce rous'd from his elysian dream,

The well-known British bands he views, dismay'd "Tis Julius*! 'tis himself, the great dictator's shade

Not so, illustrious chief, they fought

When erst thou trod'st their savage shore;
And thou didst wave, in boundless thought,
Thine eagle-flag whole nations o'er.
Say, could thy Roman cohort face

Yon fearless band of Scotia's racet ?

Could brazen buckler, or protended spear, Sustain the missile fire, and bayonet's shock severe ?

Soon would the temper'd faulchion shear
The gorgeous plumage of thy crest,

And soon the horseman's dread career

Pierce thy firm phalanx' shielded breast;

*Julius Cesar.

The 42d regiment of foot, always conspicuous for bravery and resolution.

Not even the prudence once that bore
Thee safe from Alexandria's shore,

When learning shrunk amid the impious blaze,* Could aught avail thee now, in Britain's brighter days.

For him, this day who glorious fell,
Yon boastful catacombst were vain,
Within whose each sepulchral cell
Proud Egypt's meaner lords remain.
Nought to his consecrated dust

Can sculptur'd pile, or pompous bust,
Or even the huge mausoleum, lend of fame :
A nobler homage waits to signalize his name.

The mistress of the world behold,

Whose thunders awe the vassal deep,
With fervour clasp his hallow'd mold,
And press it to her trembling lip.

Cesar having fired the arsenal of Alexandria, a great part of the Ptolomean library was consumed by the flames. By a wonderful presence of mind, being forced to retreat, he effected his escape in safety; for instead of stopping at his own ship, which sunk soon after with the multitude of fugitives (being next the port), he with difficulty swam to the vessel furthest off at sea, and thereby preserved his life.

† Adjoining to the suburbs of the ancient city of Necropolis.