The long and weary march can I forget,

Still as we travers'd England's utmost bound,
When the proud courser crown'd with bays, could yet
E'en faithful to the plodding pace be found?

Can I forget thee, when the warlike crew
Met gay in arms, that glitter'd in the sun,
Oft as the charge the cheering bugle blew,

How swift, how bold, how firm thou led'st them on?

Methinks I see thee in the bloom of health,

Sleek in thy coat, and in thy trappings gay,
By sportsmen envied, and admir'd by wealth,
Fresh as in life before my fancy play!

And now I see thee bony, dull, and lean,
When fell disease thy vital strength consum'd,
Jest of the vulgar for thy meagre mien,
To sad neglect of the unfeeling doom'd!

Methinks on me thou turn'st the asking eye;
And," Master, is it thus ?" thou scem'st to say;
"Unfriended wilt thou leave me now to sigh?
"In the chill hour of need wilt thou betray?

"Ah, me! to cruel hands consign'd I die!

"See my limbs fail; my heart-blood ebbs its last; "Cross my dim sight the clouds of darkness fly; "Earth fades before me; and the conflict's past!" Thou diest, old friend, far from thy Master's aid; But not unfollow'd by the bursting tear: And o'er the spot where thy poor bones are laid, Shall fond Remembrance oft thy trophies rear!

THE GRAVE OF YOUTH.

BY ANNA SEWARD.

WHEN Life is hurried to untimely close
In th' years of crystal eyes, and burnish'd hair,
Dire are the thoughts of DEATH; eternal parting
From all the precious Soul's yet known delights,
All she had clung to here;-from Youth and Hope,
And the year's blossom'd April;-bounding Strength,
Which had out-leap'd the Roes, when morning suns
Yellow'd their forest-glade ;—from Reaper's shout,
And cheerful swarm of populous Towns ;-from Time,
Which tells of joys fore past, and promises
The dear return of Seasons, and the bliss
Crowning a fruitful Marriage ;-from the stores
Of well-engrafted knowledge;—from all utterance,
Since, in the silent GRAVE, no talk! no music!
No gay surprise, by unexpected good,

Social, or individual !-no glad step

Of welcome Friend, with more intenseness listen'd
Than warbled melody !—no Father's councel,
No Mother's smile ;- -no Lover's whisper'd vow!--
There nothing breathes, save the insatiate worm,
And nothing is but the drear altering Corse,
Resolving silently to shapeless dust,

In unpierc'd darkness, and in blank OBLIVION !

MY FATHER!

BY DR. DRENNAN.

Gaudeant Bene Nati."

WHO took me from my Mother's arms,

And, smiling at her soft alarms,

Show'd me the World and Nature's charms?

My Father.

Who made me feel, and understand,

The Wonders of the Sea and Land,

And mark through all, the Maker's Hand?

My Father.

Who climb'd, with me, the mountain's height, And watch'd my look of dread delight,

While rose the glorious Orb of Light?

My Father.

Who from each flower and verdant stalk,
Gather'd a honey'd store of talk,
And fill'd the long delightful walk?

Not on an insect would he tread,
Nor strike the stinging nettle dead,

My Father.

Who taught, at once, my heart, and head,

My Father.

*

Who wrote upon that Heart the line
Paidia grav'd on Virtue's shrine,
To make the human race divine?

My Father.

Who fir'd my breast with Homer's fame,
And taught the high heroic theme,
That nightly flash'd upon my dream?

My Father.

Who smil'd at my supreme desire,
To see the "curling smoke aspire t,"
From Ithaca's domestic fire?

My Father.

Upon the raft, amidst the foam,

Who, with Ulysses, saw me roam,

His head still rais'd to look for home?

My Father.

'What made a barren rock so dear?'

My boy!-he had a country there."
And who then dropt a prescient tear?

Who, now, in pale and placid light
Of Memory, gleams upon my sight,
And bursts the Sepulchre of Night?

O teach me still thy christian plan,
Thy practice with thy precept ran,
Nor yet desert me-now a man,

* ̓Αληθένειν και ευεργετείν.

My Father.

My Father.

My Father.

The summary of education, and what ought to be infcribed on

the door of her temples.

+ καπνον εφιτροςκουντα νοηςαιο

ODYSS.

Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice,
With charm of thy angelic voice;

Still prompt the motive, and the choice,

My Father.

WHEN Age my throbbing heart shall tame,

And e'en my fair one's form shall change,
Youths, of my constant hopeless flame
Shall hear and haply think it strange.

But when, bright Portrait, thou hast prov'd
What beauties did my heart assail,
They'll wonder-not that I have lov'd-
But that I've liv'd to tell the tale.

S. V. I.