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No friend appears to soothe the hour of death;
Nor can conviction of his country's good, By his decease, arrest his fleeting breath,
Or cool the burning fever of his blood.
Yet, hopeless Soldier ! o'er thy lowly grave
A tear I'll shed-the tribute to the brave.
Sweet Harp! whose magic power,
In sorrow's lonely hour,
Gives to th' afflicted ear,
Thy friendly aid to feel;
And woes it cannot heal,
Doth teach the heart to bear.
Gladly I hail thy lay,
Which sheds a cheering ray,
To calm my aching breast;
Those heart-felt notes alone,
With trembling plaintive tone,
Can bid my passions rest.
Ah! then again
Repeat that strain,
Whose dying cadence, soft and low,
Steals o'er my soul
With sweet controul,
And lulls the sense of woe.
Sure, sounds like those were given,
To raise the soul to heav'n,
To make men wise and good;
Hark! how they pour along,
Now in full tide of song,
Now pity's tend'rest mood.
Oh Music! maid divine !
Before thy heav'nly shrine ;
Whether in solar ray,
Or where the polar star,
Gleams faintly from afar,
To light the pilgrim's way ;
A suppliant low,
I votive bow,
And claim from thy benignant pow'r
A sweet relief,
The balm of grief,
In sorrow's lonely hour.
I own I'm wholly at a stand,
How to obey my friend's command-
That the poetic lyre be strung,
To sing a lady fair and young.
How shall description mark out one,
By attributes unclaim'd by none ?
Should I an angel face pourtray,
With eyes that emulate the day;
Or radiant with a milder beam,
With love and langour softly gleam;
With skin as white as mountain snows,
With cheeks as crimson as the rose;
Made up in short of sweets and graces,
And all that's usual in such cases ;-
There's not a woman with an eye
Dull as baked gooseberries in a pie,
Eyes that, unless a friendly nose
Did amicably interpose,
Each, as if jealous of its brother,
Would cross-examine one another ;
With teeth alternate black and yellow,
With cheeks most biliously sallow;
With hair grey, carroty, or black,
With skin as coarse as rind of Jack,*
Like nine-pins squat, or maypole tall,
With figure of no shape at all;
Whom surgeons could, from bones projecting,
Anatomise without dissecting,–
But would, if called upon, aver
The picture might be meant for her.
Exclusive then, of form and face,
you name some other
And with corporeal charms combined,
Disclose some beauties of the mind;
The muse in vain her voice shall raise,
To fix on one, divided praise ;-
Yet know I one of lovely mien,
Of roseate hue and sweet sixteen;
Whose youthful beauty, tho' it warms,
Yet constitutes but half her charms.
Her Hebe-face, although 'tis true,
Is heighten'd by the rose's hue;
Her eyes with liquid lustre shine,
Her flowing tresses intertwine;
Her ruby lips perchance awhile
Distended sweetly with a smile,-
But oft'ner laughing, give to sight,
Teeth even rang’d of iv'ry white;
Her form majestically bold,
With limbs conform'd of nicest mould;
Softness with life and vigour join'd,
Firmness with symmetry combined;
Though she displays in form and face
A model of the female race;
Yet those alone would fail to move
My praise, my wonder, or my love.
But when with these I see combined,
The nobler beauties of the mind
See goodness, temper, sense, and ease,
Give both the power and will to please ;
See her the several duties blend,
Of daughter, relative, and friend;
Trace in a conduct void of art,
The best emotions of the heart;-
Not touched by selfish woes alone,
But grieved for sorrows not her own.
See her those studied arts disdain,
That stigmatize the weak and vain ;-
See each accomplishment unite
To win the heart and charm the sight;
Without a thought to covet praise,
Yet merit it a thousand ways:
With mirth, the chasten'd child of sense,
And laughter-loving innocence,
Joyous the passing hours beguile,
Extort from dullness' self a smile ;
But with the gaiety of youth,
Blend solid sense and spotless truth,–
These added charms I own e'en move
My praise, my wonder, and my love.
You smile, my friend—why then I ween,
This is the very girl I mean !
ON A STATUE OF NIOBE-FROM THE GREEK.
The Gods, in anger, chang’d my form to stone,
And from my breast the spark celestial tore;
But see Praxiteles hath their work undone,
And warm'd to life what marble was before.
BELINDA was celebrated in this country both for her wit and beauty, and if a patriotic Hibernicism now and then escaped her, it only added to the piquancy of her character, and gave a zest to the originality and brilliancy of her remarks. That