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The hollow breeze shall sooth her breast
With Echo's Tale, and claim a tear: For she, your mind, your charms possess'd,
Whose silent ashes slumber here. The hand of Nature form'd her face,
To move esteem in every breast; For gentle blood and native grace, And
peace and love were there express'd. Where these soft waves in silence flow,
At eveniog's close, the youth she sought; Whose
eyes first taught her cheek to glow, Flush'd with a warm and tender thought. The shrill winds whistled round her head,
And darkness mock'd the straining eye; Foul night her raven locks had spread,
Wet with thick damps thro' all the sky. The ruthless blast sung through her hair,
But patient Hope her fears allay'd ; And when her cold lips breath'd a prayer,
Not for herself that prayer was made. She wander'd round the destin'd place,
And listen'd oft and wept through fear; The rude brier tore her beauteous face,
And mix'd with blood the falling tear. At length she found her love, she thought
He slept, the cold ground was his bed ; Trembling, his stony hand she caught,
She call’d, nor knew she call the dead, For he had met his secret foe;
Unarm’d, alas ! in vain he strove; A rivals malice aim'd the blow,
In dire revenge of slighted love.
All piere'd with wounds, and warm in blood,
He dragg’d the breathless body here
In cruel sport; she shriek'd aloud,
And rent with cries the troubled air.
Her fair locks to the winols she gave,
And sought, with frantic grief possess’d,
This guilty stream ; the ruthless wave
Clos'd o'er her head, she sunk to rest.
By pious hands this stone was laid,
By pious eyes 'twas water'd o’er:
Such was her fate. For thee, fair maid,
Heaven keep a happier lot in store,
Intended for a Mausoleum, ercarated from a Rock on the
Sea Coast in Wales, by a Lady, where she had ordered
her Remains to be deposited.
WITIN this rock, from whose commanding brow,
In the green mirror of the sea below,
Now placid, now with angry winds at strife,
She mark'd the sad vicissitudes of life,
And to herself applied the checquer'd scene
(For much was her’s of boisterous and serene,)
Naria sleeps-who, many a danger past,
Finds the calm haven of the grave at last;
And, sleeping safe, the world's last storm defies,
By Faith's firm anchor fasten'd to the skies.
R. FENTON, ESQ.
Quid Romæ faciam ?--Juvenal.
Nec vizit male qui natus moriensque fefellit--HORAT.
Mix with the world, the polish'd world, you cry,
Nor waste thy prime in dull obscurity;
Go, join assemblies of the great and gay,
Thy worth, thy wit, thy genius there display;
In towris, in courts, the road to greatness find,
Improve thy manners, and enlarge thy mind,
A place, a pension, or high-portion'd dame
Thy fortune shall repair and sinking name.
Hold, hold my friend! and first consult with care
What suits my genius, what my strength will bear;
To education we our manners owe;
And as you bend the twig the tree will grow.
'The mind once-form’d, distort it how you will,
Plain simple nature will be nature still.
'Twere strange to see a horse with human head;
As strange that I, a rustic born and bred,
My life half spent shou'd now embrace the town,
A mongrel beau engrafted on a clown:
They who in wondering at the beast concurr'd,
Would hiss at me, a mixture more absurd.
Shall I, an enemy to noise and strife,
Who cannot relish turtle for
life, Who sleep at midnight and by daylight dine, Who hate French manners, and abhor French wine,
To routs, to Ranelagh, and cards, a foe,
Who on my dress but little care bestow,
Fond of few words, and those of plainest kind,
Shall I with wits and men of taste be joiu'd ?
Shall I with Fashion through her follies range,
Ape all her forms, and as she changes, change?
Forbid it, Prudence, Common Sense forbid !
My rustic manners never can be hid.
Once, and but once, by vanity betray'd,
In full-dress'd fashionable suit array'd,
Like David in Saul's armor, Fa beau
Among the cuurtly crowd essay'd to go.
O had you seen me with distressful stare,
As greatly conscivus of no business there,
On the wrought cieling, or the paintings pore,
With many a wishful look turn’d towards the door,
Amidst surrounding multitudes, alone,
Of every soul unknowing and unknown,
Formal and grave, without ono single word,
With frequent stumbles o'er my dangling sword,
Yourself had pitied the bewilder’d: 'squire,
Yourself had whisper'd—“My good friend, retire."
Escap'd at length, for haste I bilk'd my chair,
Ran to my lodgings, and in safety there
Sigh'd for my plain blue plush' and rural air.
At Court--but peace to ministers and kings-
I wash my hands of all such dangerous things:
And peace to such,, and happiness be theirs,
(So I no more ascend St. James's stairs)
Who cringe for pensions, and for titles bow,
And may they still stand foremost in the row;
And as the royal whisper hackneys-round,
Still on each face may ready smiles be foundi;
For smiles at court ve
the heart sincere ; But looks like mine can never prosper there;
Like Cassius, I, a spare long-visag'd guest,
Might raise suspicion in great Cæsar's breast;
And servitude how high so e'er it be,
(A Briton speaks it) is too low for me.
-You laugh at fables, and at proverbs too;
I'll tell a tale, a recent tale, and true.,
In yon old mansion, wash'd by Derwent's flood,
'Squire Toper liv'd, th’ Actæon of the wood;
In sportive green he always rode array'd;
A hunter's cap his turn of mind betray'd;
A healthy hue bespoke a length of years,
His short brown wig cou'd scarce conceal his ears;
A velvet collar did his neck surround;
His belt was stamp'd with many, a tinsel hound;
Of buck his breeches, which himself he slew;
And his trim boots close to his ancles grew;
Spearlike his spurs; while many an echoing crack
Lurk’d in his lash, obedient to the smack;
Horses and hounds were his supreme delight,
Of those he thought by day, and dream'd by night.
With strong-brew'd beer his spacious vaults were stor'd,
And beef and pudding smoak’d upon his board.
His rural neighbours there a welcome found ;
And Church and King, and Liberty went round.
'Midst an inglorious but a guiltless life,
He lov’d his
friend, old England, and his wife.
At length (the Devil ordain'd it) Toper went
The Country's choice to Town and Parliament.
Alas, with grief the sequel I pursue!
What cannot fashion, life, and London do?
Plain Toper say'st thou?-not for half the world!
'Tis sweet Sir Topaz, and his hair is curld.
Behold him now of Ladies' favour vain,
Affecting manners he can ne'er attain,