Or dost thou still, O tearful bard,
Lorn Melancholy's wanderings guard
In some remote and solemn grove;
With dewy garlands deck the grave,
Where Freedom lulls her hapless brave,
Or dress the tomb of Love?

Rude Madness, ideot king of power,
Who from the Muse's breast
Tore him, that in her sacred bower
She knew and lov'd the best;
Stare not in gloomy silence more,
Rage all thy storms of passion o'er,
And weave the wilderings of the soul!
Pale Collins dropt his sacred lyre;
He saw thy frenzied orbs of fire,
Thy meteor eyeballs roll!

Lorn tearful bard, whose wild-wove lay
Each thrilling passion sung;

When Music now soft died away,
Now wild and warlike rung;
I see, I see thy solemn shade

Quick starting from yon haunted glade
With tresses tost, and eyes that weep;
High o'er the gulf screams Danger loud,
And Fear on phantoms wrapt in cloud
Howls dreadfully and deep!

Fell Anger with his clenching hand
Rude dashes on the lyre;

Wild throws it on the trembling land,
And grasps his torch of fire!

-Look, look no more!-In murmuring low
I hear the sigh of anguish flow:
Sad Jealousy, away:-'tis thine!
Thy hollow smile and fitful sob
Too wildly bid my bosom throb !
I do not call thee mine!

Hark! 'Tis Revenge, while thunders peal,

With blast of threatening breath,

Calls on the fiends that darkling deal

The hidden point of death!

Fierce as he winds the stormy strain,
Rise visages that writhe with pain,
And hands the purple steel that grasp;
At each dread pause wild groans Despair,
And dying Pity on the air

Slow heaves a lingering gasp!

But sounds arise more soft and sweet,
Melodiously forlorn;

They breathe thro' yonder green retreat
From Melancholy's horn!

Ye glades, repeat the soothing sound,
Ye runnels, steal in warblings round:
From yonder gloom bright visions break!
See Hope her golden tresses wave,
And Joy, whose songs Erato gave,
The smiling Morn awake!

Soul-soothing bard, in what bright sphere

Now breathes thy sacred lyre?

What angel-youths enraptur'd hear?

What heavenly themes inspire?

Thy hand no more sublimely flings
Empassion'd horror on its strings,
Deep and majestically wild;

Peace breathes thro' every softer lay,
And Inspiration's gentlest ray
Plays round his warbling child!

Soul-soothing bard, thy shade appears
As smiling as thy Muse;

Thy cheek no longer dew'd with tears,
Thy hair empearl'd with dews!

Hark! Love to Mirth's enraptur'd strain
Trips gaily o'er the laughing plain,
And Zephyr breathes his sweetest tale;
Brisk Chearfulness the note prolongs,
And Echo fills with mingling songs
The bosom of the gale!

Farewel, sweet bard; thy grave around
Shall still with flow'rs be drest,
While Sympathy and Love be found
To warm the human breast!

There Truth and Friendship hand in hand
Shall dew with tears the blooming land,
And scatter wreaths of every hue!
I tear with grief my Muse away,
Still seem to hear thy thrilling lay,
And weep a last adieu!

THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA.

At Thebes, in ancient Egypt, was erected a statue of Memnon, with an harp in his hand, which is said to have hailed with delightful music the rising sun, and in melancholy tones to have mourned his departure. The introduction of this celebrated lyre on a modern occasion, will be censured as an Anachronism by those only, who think that its chords have been touched unskilfully.

HARP of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres ;
While the Hero's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears,

As the sun's descending beams,
Glancing o'er thy golden wire,
Kindle every chord, that gleams,
Like a ray of heavenly fire;

Let thy numbers, soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying, while they flow,
To the memory of the dead.

Bright as Venus, newly born,

Blushing at her maiden charms
Fresh from ocean rose the Morn,

When the trumpet sang to arms,

O that Time had stay'd his flight,
Ere that Morning left the main;
Fatal as the Egyptian night,

When the eldest born were slain!

Lash'd to madness by the wind,
As the Red-Sea surges roar,
Leave a gloomy gulph behind,
And devour the shrinking shore;

Thus with overwhelming pride,
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast,
In a deep and dreadful tide,
Roll'd upon the British host.

Dauntless these their station held,
Though with unextinguished ire,
Gallia's legions, thrice repell'd,
Thrice return'd through blood and fire.

Thus above the storms of Time,
Towering to the sacred spheres,

Stand the Pyramids sublime,

-Rocks amid the flood of years!

Now the veteran chief drew nigh;
Conquest towering on his crest,
Valour beaming from his eye,
Pity bleeding in his breast,

Britain saw him thus advance,

In her Guardian-Angel's form: But he lower'd on hostile France,

Like the Dæmon of the Storm.