60 LORD GRENVILLE'S INSTALLATION.

While Gambia's swarthy tribes thy mercies bless,
And from thy counsels date their happiness;
Say, (for thine Isis yet recalls with pride
Thy youthful triumphs by her leafy side,)
Say, hast thou scorned, 'mid pomp, and wealth,

and power,

The sober transports of a studious hour ?-
No, statesman, no !-thy patriot fire was fed
From the warm embers of the mighty dead;
And thy strong spirit's patient grasp combined
The souls of ages in a single mind.
-By arts like these, amidst a world of foes,
Eye of the earth, th’ Athenian glory rose;
Thus, last and best of Romans, Brutus shone ;
Our Somers thus, and thus our Clarendon ;
Such Cobham was ;-such, Grenville, long be

thou, Our boast before-our chief and chainpion now.

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG NAVAL

OFFICER,

DESIGNED FOR A TOMB IN A SEAPORT TOWN

IN NORTH WALES.

SAILOR, if vigor nerve thy frame,

If to high deeds thy soul is strung,
Revere this stone, that gives to fame

The brave, the virtuous, and the young.

For manly beauty decked his form,

His bright eye beamed with mental power; Resistless as the winter storm,

Yet mild as summer's mildest shower.

In war's hoarse rage, in ocean's strife,

For skill, for force, for mercy known ;
Still prompt to shield a comrade's life,

And greatly careless of his own.

Yet, youthful seaman, mourn not thou

The fate these artless lines recall;
No, Cambrian, no, be thine the vow,

Like him to live, like him to fall.

But hast thou known a father's care,

Who sorrowing sent thee forth to sea; Poured for thy weal the unceasing prayer,

And thought, the sleepless night, on thee?

Has e'er thy tender fancy flown,
When winds were strong and waves were

high,
Where, listening to the tempest's moan,

Thy sisters heaved the anxious sigh?

Or in the darkest hour of dread,

'Mid war's wild din, and ocean's swell, Hast mourned a hero brother dead,

And did that brother love thee well :

Then pity those whose sorrows flow

In vain o'er Shipley's empty grave ;Sailor, thou weef'st :-Indulge thy wo;

Such tears will not disgrace the brave.

AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.

OUR task is done ; on Gunga's breast
The sun is sinking down to rest;
And moored beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbor now.
With furled sail, and painted side,
Behold the tiny frigate ride.
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslems' savory supper steams,
While all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.

Come, walk with me the jungle through;
If yonder hunter told us true,
Far off, in desert dank and rude,
The tiger holds his solitude;
Nor (taught by secret charm to shun
The thunders of the English gun;)
A dreadful guest but rarely seen,
Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on ; no venomed snake
Can shelter in so cool a brake :
Child of the sun, he loves to lie
'Mid nature's embers parched and dry,

Where, o'er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade, Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe, Fit warder in the gate of death. Come on-yet pause : behold us now Beneath the banıboo's arched bough, Where gemming oft that sacred gloom, Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom, And winds our path through many a bower Of fragrant tree and giant flower; The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed O’er the broad plantain's huinbler shade, And dusk anana's prickly blade; While o'er the brake, so wild and fair, The betel waves his crest in air. With pendent train and rushing wings, Aloft the gorgeous-peacock springs ; And he, the bird of hundred dyes, Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. So rich a shade, so green a sod, Our English fairies never trod; Yet who in Indian bower has stood, But thought on England's 'good green wood? And blessed, beneath the palmy shade, Her hazel and her hawthorn glade, And breathed a prayer, (how oft in vain,) To gaze upon her oaks again ?

A truce to thought : the jackal's cry