ENCOMIUMS ON COLLINS.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN BY SCOTT, OF AMWELL,

On his return from Chichester, where he had in vain attempted to find the burial-place of Collins.

To view the beauties of my native land,
O'er many a pleasing, distant scene I rove;
Now climb the rock, or wander on the strand,
Or trace the rill, or penetrate the grove.
From Baia's hills, from Portsea's spreading wave,
To fair Cicestria's lonely walls I stray;
To her fam'd Poet's venerated grave,

Anxious my tribute of respect to pay.

O'er the dim pavement of the solemn fane, Midst the rude stones that crowd the adjoining space

The sacred spot I seek: but seek in vain-
In vain I ask-for none can point the place.

What boots the eye whose quick observant glance
Marks every nobler, every fairer form?
What, the skill'd ear that sound's sweet charms
entrance,

And the fond breast with generous passion
warm?

What boots the power each image to portray,

The power with force each feeling to express? How vain the hope that through life's little day, The soul with thought of future fame can bless.

While Folly frequent boasts the' insculptur'd tomb, By Flattery's pen inscrib'd with purchas'd praise;

While rustic Labour's undistinguish'd doom Fond Friendship's hand records in humble phrase:

Of Genius oft and Learning worse the lot,

For them no care, to them no honour shown; Alive neglected, and when dead forgot, Ev'n COLLINS slumbers in a grave unknown.

EPITAPH,

BY HAYLEY AND SARGENT.

YE, who the merits of the dead revere,
Who hold misfortune sacred, genius dear,
Regard this tomb; where COLLINS' hapless name
Solicits kindness with a double claim."

Though Nature gave him, and though Science taught

The fire of Fancy, and the reach of thought,
Severely doom'd to penury's extreme,

Hepass'd, in maddening pain, life's feverish dream;
While rays of genius only serv'd to show
The thick'ning horror, and exalt his woe.
Ye walls that echoed to his frantic moan!
Guard the due records of this grateful stone.
Strangers to him, enamour'd of his lays,
This fond memorial to his talents raise:
For this, the ashes of a Bard require,
Who touch'd the tenderest notes of Pity's lyre;
Who join'd pure Faith to strong poetic powers,
Who, in reviving Reason's lucid hours,
Sought on one book his troubled mind to rest,
And rightly deem'd the Book of GOD the best."

The closing couplet of this epitaph alludes to a well-known anecdote related by Dr. Johnson, in his "Lives of the Poets."

ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I.

SELIM;

OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL.

SCENE -a valley near Bagdat. TIME-the Morning. YE Persian maids, attend your poet's lays, And hear how shepherds pass their golden days. Not all are bless'd whom Fortune's hand sustains With wealth in courts; nor all that haunt the plains:

Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; 'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspir'd: Nor praise, but such as Truth bestowed, desir'd; Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd Informing morals to the shepherd maid; Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find, What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind!

When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride, The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride; When wanton gales along the valleys play, Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away;

By Tigris' wandering waves he sat, and sung
This useful lesson for the fair and young.

"Ye Persian dames," he said, "to you belongWell may they please-the morals of my song:

G

No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found, Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around! The morn that lights you, to your loves supplies Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:

For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow; And yours the love that kings delight to know. Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are, The best kind blessings heaven can grant the fair! Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray

Boast but the worth Bassora's pearls display: Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright; But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light: Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast,

By sense unaided, or to virtue lost.

Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain
That love shall blind, when once he fires the swain;
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,
As spots on ermine beautify the skin:
Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair;
Each tender passion man delights to find;
The lov'd perfections of a female mind!

"Bless'd were the days when Wisdom held her
reign,

And shepherds sought her on the silent plain; With Truth she wedded in the secret grove, Immortal Truth! and daughters bless'd their love. -O haste, fair maids! ye Virtues, come away! Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way! The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore, By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more.

"Lost to our fields, for so the fates ordain, The dear deserters shall return again.

Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear,

To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear: