MARIA;

OR,

THE FATHER'S RECOLLECTIONS.

BY W. CAREY, ESQ.

OH, thou, who wert thy father wont to hear,
And answer to his call with fond delight,
Maria, daughter, best beloved child,

Where art thou now? To what concealment fled?
With me, thy mother calls, and, mov'd to tears,
Thy dear, thy nursling sister, joins her plaint.
In vain I call upon the silent dust.

Dull, dark, and senseless, as the mossy stone,
Which roofs her lowly tenement of clay,
She hears me not; nor feels the wintry blast,
That rends the forest, raves along the vale,
And drifts the new-fallen srow in heaps around.
Fool that I was.-Oh self-deceiv'd, to think
That I could wake again that voice of joy;
Or with her airy semblance glad my view,
Cloth'd in the harmony of sweet, pale smiles,
As when she look'd up in her father's face,
And woo'd me with her tender names of love.
'Twas thus I struggled to support that hour,
Which tore thee from me.-Fill'd with these fond hopes,
I bore to look upon thy face in death,
And saw the dark cold grave close on thee.
I fought against my nature. I supprest
Tears, sighs, and every common sign of grief.

I thought I said-we were not parted quite.
A father's love, I deem'd, would still preserve
Thy image in my heart, my eye, my mind.
Ah no! it must not be. A few short months,
Not full two fleeting years, have serv❜d to chase
That image from my eye; have rendered dumb
That voice of transport. I no longer view
Those angel smiles: no longer now I hear
Those soft sweet tones. Hours, days, weeks pass,
And still remembrance is a joyless blank.
Save when mild Spring, or golden Summer leads,
Or sober Autumn tempts me forth to roam;
Alone, the woody glen, the pathless hill,
The wild brown moor, or river's shelving bank,
At morn, at eve, I wander. Pausing oft,
Struck by the rude magnificence of scene,
In pensive mood, the prospect I survey;

Fair lawns, and cultur'd meads, and flocks, and herds,
Grey cliffs, dark woods, and rolling silver streams,
Hamlets and village spires, green fields and mountains
blue,

Beyond whose airy openings, ocean seems

A shining speck. Immeasurable space

Before me seems to stretch. The lively breeze

Plays on my cheek, exhaling incense sweet

Of bloom, and bud, and herb, and fruit, and flower, In wild luxuriance springing. Lulling sounds,

The sheep-bell's tinkle, and the low of kine,

Heard faintly from afar; the busy hum

Of myriad insects sporting on the wing;
The melody of birds from brake and bower;

The church-clock tolling from the church unseen;

The mingled swell of placid elements,

Of winds and waters murmuring as they move;
Steal on my ear.

"Tis INSPIRATION's voice

That calls on man to lift his soul in praise
Of him, the OMNIPOTENT, the GREAT FIRST CAUSE
Of all created being. To the clouds,
That in majestic volumes roll on high,

My eye is raised. Along the azure skies,
Their march I wistful mark, and gaze intent,
Until the sight grows humid. Then, ah, then,
Thy angel spirit rises on my view.

My heart is full: my breast too small to hold
The tide of feeling.-Then, I hear-I see
Thee, thee, Maria, thee my best beloved,
A cherub, throned amid the heavenly choir,
Hymning the glories of the ETERNAL ONE.
Feb. 12, 1809.

EPITAPH

ON MRS. MARISSAL.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

FAREWELL, mild saint! meek child of love, farewell!
Ill can this stone thy finish'd virtues tell.
Rest, rest in peace! the task of life is o'er;
Sorrows shall sting, and sickness waste, no more.
But hard our task from one so lov'd to part,
While fond remembrance clings around the heart;
Hard to resign the sister, friend, and wife,
And all that cheers, and all that softens life.
Farewell! for thee the gates of bliss unclose,
And endless joy succeeds to transient woes.

A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. CHARLES JAMES FOX.

BY RICHARD PAYNE KNIGHT, ESQ.

Ανης των καθ ̓ ἑαυτὸν
Αφέλη: τε εδενος ύστερος,
Και κράτιστος ενθυμηθηναι γενομένος,

Και ά αν γνοίη, ειπείν.

WHILE lingers yet the sigh o'er NELSON heav'd,
Yet bloom the garlands round his trophies weav'd,
A loss more grievous-sorrows more severe
Weigh on the heart, and urge the falling tear.
For, bright as glory glitters round his urn,
At other shrines its lamps with lustre burn:
Still valour's blaze illumines Britain's skies;
And Stars that set leave other Stars that rise:
But talents to direct its erring force,
And guide th' eccentric lightning in its course;
Its powers to ascertain, its means provide,
And turn to peaceful ends war's wasteful tide,
In vain we look for the extinguish'd Light,
Decpen'd by contrast, leaves the shades of night.

Then while around the clouds of darkness roll,
As one vast empire spreads from pole to pole;
Crush'd by its weight, while Taste and Science fall,
And thickening dulness slowly covers all;
Ere yet, benumb'd in one cold mass, mankind
To servile torpor yield all power of mind ;
Ere silence reign in universal sleep,

Let FREEDOM's faltering voice her HERO weep;
Breathe her last sigh to consecrate HIS name,
And in her last sad lay His worth proclaim.

Yes, mighty Genius! though a thankless age,
Blinded with prejudice and drunk with rage,

Despis'd thy warning voice, and madly burl'd
In slavery's yawning gulf a frantic world:
Still wisdom's light shall glimmer round thy tomb;
Still shall thy sense illuminate the gloom;

And, on the wreck of all thou wouldst have sav'd,
Display, in notes indelible engrav'd,

Th'immortal relicks of that godlike mind
Which liv'd to teach, and toil'd to serve mankind.
Then error, free from rhetorick's tinsel view'd,
Shall make men blush at what they long pursu’d;
And wondering nations, who with stupid gaze
Follow'd wild meteors through a trackless maze,
With penitential awe too late revere

That counsel which they once refus'd to hear :
Millions shall cry, while gall'd by slavery's chain,
"This had we shun'd, had FOX not spoke in vain;
"This had we shun'd:-but passion, urg'd by pride,
"Mock'd the calm voice of reason's steady guide;
"Follow'd ambition's vain delusive charms,
"When rashness led by folly rush'd to arms:
"Still had we liv'd unfetter'd, unopprest,

66

Blessing our Country-by our Country blest;
"Still undisturb'd in peaceful valleys play'd,
"Had THY prophetic wisdom been obey'd!"

Ah! while these little Islands yet remain
A doubtful refuge from the Oppressor's chain;
While yet unaw'd thy recent loss we mourn,
And the heart's tears bedew thy sacred urn,
Let tardy penitence to Heaven atone
For errors, which, alas! were all our own:
Let us, appall'd by thy untimely death,
Catch inspiration from thy parting breath;
And, while remembrance cherishes the gleam,
Whose light dispell'd ambition's feverish dream,