SONG.

BY THE LATE MISS ELIZA RYVES.

A

NEW fallen lamb, as mild Emmeline past,

In pity she turn'd to behold,

How it shiver'd and shrunk from the merciless blast,

Then fell all benumb'd with the cold.

She rais'd it, and touch'd by the innocent's fate,
Its soft form to her bosom she prest;

But the tender relief was afforded too late,
It bleated, and died on her breast.

The moralist then, as the corse she resign'd,
And weeping, spring flowers o'er it laid,

Thus mus'd, "So it fares with the delicate mind,
To the tempests of fortune betray'd.

"Too tender, like thee, the rude shock to sustain, And denied the relief which would save,

'Tis lost; and when pity and kindness are vain, Thus we dress the poor sufferer's grave!"

LINES,

To the Memory of the Rev. G. Wakefield.

FRIEND of departed worth! whose pilgrim feet
Trace injur'd merit to its last retreat,

Oft will thy steps imprint the hallow'd shade,
Where Wakefield's dust, embalm'd in tears is laid;
"Here (wilt thou say) a high undaunted soul,
That spurned at palsied caution's weak controul-
A mind by learning stored, by genius fired,
In Freedom's cause with generous warmth inspired,
Moulders in earth; the fabric of his fame
Rests on the pillar of a spotless name!"

Fool of corruption-spaniel slave of power!
Should thy rash steps in some unguarded hour
Profane the shrine, deep on thy shrinking heart
Engrave this awful moral, and depart!
That not the shafts of slander, envy, hate,
The dungeon's gloom, nor the cold hands of fate,
Can rob the good man of that peerless prize
Which not pale Mammon's countless treasure buys.
The conscience clear whence secret pleasures flow,
And friendship kindled 'mid the gloom of woe,
Assiduous love that stays the parting breath,
And honest fame triumphant over death.

For you, who o'er the sacred marble bend,
To weep the husband, father, brother, friend,
And, mutely eloquent, in anguish raise
Of keen regrets his monument of praise-

May Faith, may Friendship, dry your streaming eyes,
And Virtue mingle comfort with your sighs;
Till Resignation softly stealing on,

With pensive smile bid ling'ring grief begone,
And tardy Time veil o'er with gradual shade,

All but the tender tints you would not wish to fade.

L. A.

EPITAPH,

On his Sister, Lady Betty Mansel;

BY JOHN LORD HERVEY.

READER attend! and if thine eye let fall
A silent tear, confess it Nature's call:

Consign'd to God, from whom the blessing came,
Here lye the precious relics of that frame,
Which, when inform'd with life, attractive shin'd
With all we hope or wish of woman kind.
Those different attributes of chaste and fair,
(When join'd how lovely; yet alas! how rare!)
Which charms united did in her combine;
The sex was female, but the soul divine:
Virtue, discretion, and a graceful ease,
(For sure in her 'twas natural to please,)
Adorn'd her manners in each sphere of life,
The daughter, friend, the sister, and the wife:

This treasure lost, what tongue can speak the smart
Her mourning parents feel, and every kindred heart i
But chiefly his, whose faithful bosom prov'd

The last endearments of his sole belov'd;
Yet mourn not, youth, the lot to either given,
You've liv'd in Paradise, she lives in Heav'n.

PROLOGUE,

As intended to have been Spoken before the Dramatic Entertainment of "Not at Home," by R. C. Dallas, Esq. WRITTEN BY WALLER RODWELL WRIGHT, ESQ*.

OUR Author, anxious for your approbation,
Has sent me here by way of preparation;
But undetermined still what means to use,
To recommend this bantling of his Muse:

From thought to thought with double haste he rov'd,
As fancy led or judgment disapproved;

I could not bear to see him thus perplex'd,
So cried, "I'll take your title for my text."
At home, or not at home-Oh! tis a theme
As vast as Folly's never-failing stream.
Why, Not at home's the vice of modern days,
Which every age, and sex, and rank displays;
And Coxcombs, from the 'Prentice to the Peer,
Disdain the limits of their proper sphere.-
Observe my Lord-the copy of his groom-
In all the scenes of vulgar life at home;
At home to all the Puligistic train,
Lord of the ring and hero of the rein:

But not at home when tradesmen would be paid,
Or worth and genius supplicate his aid;

And least at home, Oh! mean and groveling mind!
In that high station which his birth assigned.

*Author of the Poem entitled HORE IONICE.

In those dull moments when ennui prevails, And beaux forget to call, and scandal fails, What dame of fashion e'er can condescend

At home the solitary hours to spend ?

At home! Oh monstrous! is there then no way
To kill the languor of the irksome day?
Call my barouche! I'll drive to Lady Bloom:
Our mutual watchword still is-Not at home:
And Mrs. Shuttle, odious, rustic creature!
Whose suppers we endure from mere good nature.
Brisk at his post, and practised in reply,
The powdered footman tells the ready lie;
Not so the simple lad just come to town,
Scarce half a coxcomb, more than half a clown,
With awkward shame he turns his head away,
And blushing stammers-Not at home to-day.
To Bond Street next to cheapen fans and laces,
Or buy at Overton's the Loves and Graces.

These follies drive away the morning spleen;
Rout, Opera, Concert close the evening scene.
Thus having trod the giddy circle o'er,

Till fashion palls, and folly charms no more,
Listless and tir'd, at length she condescends
To pass one night at home-but sees her friends.
Forth fly a thousand cards, and each conveys
Her summons, couch'd in true laconic phrase;
Her Ladyship at home.-Well! view her there:
Order your coach at ten to Berkeley square ;
Along the crowded staircase force your way,
Where costly flowers their mingled sweets display:
Approach the long saloon where, blazing bright,
Rich chandeliers refract the varied light.
Her sofa deck'd with oriental pride,
All Egypt's monsters grinning at her side,