"When, borne by pow'rful fate, th' unerring spear "(For this for ever be that spear renown'd, "For this my latest hour with pleasure crown'd!) "Laid low your warrior-chief and level'd with the "slain? "I saw him fall-I heard the groan "That pierc'd your ranks with hollow moan; "That smote him from your murderous band, "Who on my country's bleeding plains from far "First planted deep the withering steps of war. "Ye sons of Oglu! and ye Indian Maids! "The warrior's praise! the virgin's tears! "What colour'd once with joy, or sour'd the springs of "life! "Though once, with fondest vow, "I bless'd the sweets of Zeyra's peaceful grove, "The sylvan chace, or gentler charms of Love "And all the rapt'rous scenes of past delight; "Th' unconquerable soul that scorns the funeral flame. "Not a tear and not a sigh "Shall weakly to my pangs reply, "No coward wretch, no dastard foe "But he who bore, unmov'd, your chains, "Tho' now I feel your searching pains "Fierce and more fierce convulse my lab'ring veins, "Tho' fall'n that hand (O bless the deed!) "That forc'd your Warrior-chief to bleed, "Still my true heart in equal motion leaps, "And my firm soul its wonted freedom keeps. "Hail to the dawn that rises on my "All hail the coming day! "I feel, I feel the fiery torrents roll soul! "That sweep my purple life away. "Ah now I come! prepare, ye spirits blest, "Your bow'rs of pleasure and your beds of rest! "Yet-ere the bow of life be quite unstrung, "While the sounds tremble on my fault'ring tongue, Receive, ye chiefs! that 'round the pyre have stood, "Lavish of fate, and prodigal of blood, ""Tis all a dying warrior knows to give, My last sad curse, ye warrior chiefs, receive!" Stopp'd is the voice by Fate-and ah again SONG. OH! let not suspense, with its fetters of ice, The winter of age will be here in a trice, And death freeze us for good in the grave. How long shall each touch with a tongue be inspir'd, And, be told from her eyes what she gathers from R. FENTON, ESQ. THE GOLDEN AGE*, ་ A Poetical Epistle from Erasmus D -n, M. D. to Thomas Beddoes, M.D. BY THE AUTHOR OF TWO HEROIC EPISTLES TO DR. PRIESTLEY. The French, that most injured and most enlightened people upon earth, within these few years (since Despotism has been overawed by Liberty) have improved Science more than all other Nations put together. BEDDOES'S REASONS, &c. May we not, by regulating the vegetable functions, teach our Woods and Hedges to supply us with Butter and Tallow? BEDDOES'S OBSERVATIONS ON CALCULUS, SCURVY, &c. p. 29. BOAST of proud Shropshire, Oxford's lasting shame, Thou Paracelsus of this wondrous age; + By Great SOC.'s praised, by little soc.'s beloved, *First published in 1794. † Dr. Beddoes not only ranks among his intimate friends one or two Gentlemen of the University of Oxford, who at present can only be characterized as the little fellows of a little College, but likewise many illustrious Members of various Literary Societies, particularly the celebrated Dr. Priestley, whose splendid titles (even as modestly abridged by himself) are, LL. D. F. R. S. Ac. Imp. Petrop. R. Paris. Holm. Taurin. Aurel. Med. Paris. Harlem. Cantab. Americ. & Philad. Soc. Accept this lay; and to thy brother, friend; * Oh had I, silly swain, the rage and fire Prank with my pearly phrase each pretty line, Shall brighten Nature's face, shall drive the moles Disperse the darkness of primæval night, And bid a new Creation rise to light! Proceed, great days! and bring, oh! bring to view Things strange to tell! Incredible, but true! Skip, skip, ye Mountains! Forests lend your ears! VOL. VI. * Quo me rapis, tui plenum? |