LINES

To the Memory of the Right Rev. Thomas Percy, late Lord Bishop of Dromore, who died Sept 30, 1811.

IF Fancy sculpture o'er the Poet's dust
A guardian Genius jealous of its trust;
If civic crowns the Patriot's worth record,
Or palms denote the servant of the Lord;
Let Percy's urn these blended symbols claim,
To mark the Poet's, Saint's, and Patriot's name:
He with nice taste the Minstrel's harp restrung,
And prais'd the feudal chiefs from whom he sprung:
Grav'd in his youth on Britain's classic page,
A mild Mæcenas in his happy age:

By genius rais'd, to gemus still a friend,

He grac'd the patronage he lov'd to lend;

Pleas'd to converse on Shenstone's flowing strain,

Great Johnson's depth, and Goldsmith's pleasant vein,
Till buried Sages seem'd to hover nigh,
And give the vision of an age gone by.

Yet higher praise is due to Percy's bier,
More than the filial or the grateful tear!
'Twas not enough that, kind and unreprov'd,
The needy blest him, and his kindred lov'd:
He, when Rebellion rous'd her murderous host,
Stood firm, a Christian Bishop at his post;
Preserv'd his flock from Faction's wild alarms,
And died at last a Patriarch in their arms:

True to the trust the Master-Shepherd gave,
He only dropt his crosier at the grave,
Nor let us wonder that his dying bed
Still like his life benign instruction shed;
When in full prospect of the mortal strife,
He took a tranquil retrospect of life;
Nor fear'd the vale his Saviour once had trod,
But saw in death a passport to his God.

Be such thy Pastors, Britain, and defy
The tempest brooding in thy darken'd sky;
Embrace thy brother Man in every zone,
Whate'er his faith; but firmly keep thy own.
Thy wise forefathers, when they made thee great,
Round fast the Mitre to thy Regal State.

Gay Erin, oft the wily traitor's spoil,

Asks other Percys of her Sister-Isle,

Tho' hard to rule, and eager to contend,

Her own, warm heart discern'd and lov'd her Friend; Who taught her, by example's guiding light,

That man's best privilege is acting right.

November 7.

JANE WEST.

ON THE DEATH OF LORD VISCOUNT NELSON.

O VALOUR, dear, to every bosom dear,
Departed valour! take the "human tear!"
Call no man, (thus the Sage his counsel gives,)
Call no man fortunate, while yet he lives!
How happy, NELSON, fled thy generous breath,
A victor living, victor still in death!

K.

MOSES,

UNDER THE DIRECTION OF DIVINE PROVIDENCE,

CONDUCTING THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL FROM EGYPT TO THE PROMISED LAND.

A Prize Poem; recited in the Theatre, Oxford, in the Year 1807.

OH for that spirit which on Moses' lyre
Poured from the fount of light celestial fire,
Or which, 'mid Sion's courts, in later day,
Raised to sublime the Monarch-Prophet's lay!
For high the theme these numbers would rehearse,
High as e'er blest the happier Sons of Verse!
A nation fettered, from a tyrant land

Snatched by an arm outstretched, and mighty hand,
Through pathless wilds by signs and wonders led,
While swept twice twenty summers o'er its head,
And taught at length to rear its infant throne
In distant lands and regions not its own.
And ask of days that were from elder time,
Ask of yon orb which visits every clime,
If e'er they heard, since first they rolled along,
A theme so worthy of an Angel's song!

Great was the shout from glad Arabia's shore,
"Sunk is Nile's warrior pride to rise no more!"
Sublime the triumph swells: to him, the Lord,
The God of Battles, wakes each tuneful chord;
Their full applause the deep-mouth'd clarions raise,
And virgin timbrels join their softer praise:
From thousand altars holy perfumes rise,

And myriads bow in one vast sacrifice.

Are these the tribes which late by * Sihor's tide Wept o'er their wrongs, and loud for vengeance cried?

For them Hope beamed not; but a night profound,
An endless night, seemed gathering fast around;
Yet did the Day-spring rise, the captive's groan
Went not unheeded to his Father's throne;
He heard the mother's shriek, in anguish wild,
Ask from the tyrant's hand her murdered child*;
He saw the toiling slave, the inhuman lord,
And the keen tortures of the knotted cord.
Thrice-favoured race! Jehovah's parent eye
Marked every tear, and numbered every sigh!
And though full many a dreary age had shed
Slavery's worst woes upon the unsheltered head,
Though dark and long the night, yet morn could bring
Joy in its eye, and healing on its wing.

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And lo! he comes, the Seer, whom Greece would Her Guardian-Power by many a fabled name; Meckest of men, by God's own voice decreed His chosen flock, with shepherd care, to lead; For this was Mercy's arm outstretched to save His infant promise from an early grave, When Nile's tamed billow kissed his rushy bed, And the green snake played harmless o'er his head: For this, when Science taught his wondering view To read the stars, and look all nature through; When Wealth and Honour led his Youth along, And Pleasure wooed him with her Siren song; For this (as warmed he felt his spirit rise, And kindling claim its high-born destinies,) For this he spurned them all; and now his hand Sheds pale dismay on Egypt's trembling land,

* Alluding to Pharaoh's edict for the destruction of all the male children.

↑ Huet has given a list of the different Deities supposed to be the same with Moses.

And waves exulting the triumphant Rod,
Israel's release, and symbol of his God.

"Tis past-that hour of death! the eye of light
On its own towers * looks down, in glory bright:
Yet ne'er on host so vast its golden beam,
Waking, hath shone, as now, with mighty stream
Of mingled man and herd, from Goshen's land
Pours frequent forth, a more than locust band.
They go; but all is silent as the tomb-
For look! where, columned high in massy gloom,
Deep as the darkness of the coming storm,
Moves slow before the host a giant-form;
And see, as all the twilight landscape fades,
A pale and dubious light the mass pervades,
And, as the night rolls on, the wonderous frame
Pours a broad glare, and brightens into flame:
'Tis not the beacon-fire, which wakes from far
The wandering sons of rapine and of war;
"Tis not of night's fair lamp the silvery beam,
Nor the quick darting meteor's angry gleam;
No! 'tis the pillar'd cloud," the torch of Heaven,"
Pledge of the present God, by Mercy given;
The sacred boon, by Providence supplied,
By day to cover, and by night to guide.
And He the great, the eternal Lord, whose might
All being owns, who spake, and there was light,
Who gave the Sun the tower of day to keep,
And the pale Moon to watch o'er nature's sleep,
He, present still, shall aid, shall safety yield,
Thy lamp by night, by day thy guide and shield.

Not such their trust, when by the Red Sea flood, Trembling and faint, the affrighted Myriads stood,

* Heliopolis.