ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A POOR IDIOT.

WHO! hapless, helpless being, who
Shall strew a flower upon thy grave?
Or who, from "mute Oblivion's power,"
Thy disregarded name shall save?

Honour, and Wealth, and Learning's store,
The votive urn remembers long;

And even "the annals of the poor,'
Live in their Bard's immortal song.

But a blank stone best stories thee,

Whom Sense, nor Wealth, nor Fame could find: Poorer than aught beside we see;

A human form without a mind.

A casket gemless!-yet for thee

Pity suspends the tender wail;

For Reason shall a moral see,

While Memory paints the simple tale.

Yes, it shall paint thy humble form,
Clad decent in its humble weed,

Happy in harmless wandering's charm,

And pleas'd thy father's flock to feed.

With vacant, reckless smile she bore,
Patient, the scorner's cruel jest ;
With unfix'd gaze could pass it o'er,

And turn it pointless from her breast.

Her tongue, unable to display

The unform'd chaos of her mind! No sense its rude sounds could convey, But to parental instinct kind.

Yet, close to every human form
Clings Imitation's mimic power,
And she was fond, and proud to own
The school-time's regulated hour;

And o'er the mutilated page

Mutter'd the seeming lesson's tone;
And ere the scholar's task was said,
Brought ever and anon her own.

And many a truant boy would seek,
And drag reluctant to his place;

And even the master's solemn rule,

Would mock with grave and apt grimace.

Each heart humane could freely love

A nature so estrang'd from wrong;

And even infants would protect

Her from the passing traveller's tongue!

But her prime joy was still to be

Where holy congregations bow;

Rapt in wild transports when they sung,

And when they pray'd, would bend her low.

O Nature, wheresoe'er thou art,

Some latent worship still is there;
Blush ye! whose form without a heart,
The Idiot's plea can never share!

Poor guileless thing! just eighteen years,
Parental cares had rear'd alone;

Then (lest thou e'er shouldst want those cares)
Heaven took thee spotless to his own.

Full many a watching eye of love

Thy sickness and thy death did cheer;
And Reason, while she joys, approves
The instinct of a parent's tear.

Poor guileless thing! forgot by men,
The heaving turf directs to thee;
""Tis all thou art" to mortal ken,

But Faith beyond the grave can see.

For what a burst of mind shall glow,
When, disencumber'd from this clod,
Thou, who on earth couldst nothing know,
Shalt rise to comprehend thy God!

Oh! could thy spirit teach us now,

Full many a truth the gay might learn;

The value of a blameless life,

Full many a scorner might discern.

Yes! they might learn who waste their time,
What it must be to know no sin;

They who pollute the soul's sweet prime,
What, to be spotless pure within.

Go! then, and seek her humble grave,
All ye who sport in Folly's ray,
And as the gale the grass shall wave,
List to a voice that seems to say;

""Tis not the measure of your powers,

"To which the eternal meed is given:

""Tis wasted or improved hours,

"Which forfeit or secure your Heaven!"

INSCRIPTION

UNDER AN HOUR GLASS.

IN A GROTTO NEAR THE WATER.

THIS babbling stream not uninstructive flows,
Nor idly loiters to its destin'd main :
Each flower it feeds that on its margin grows,

And bids thee blush, whose days are spent in vain.

Nor void of moral, though unheeded, glides

Time's current, stealing on with silent haste;

For lo! each falling sand his folly chides

Who lets one precious moment run to waste.

ODE.

Written at Eaglehurst, * October 10, 1790,

PROUD, o'er yon distant surge, behold
Britannia's fleet majestic ride!
Where, as her flags in many a fold

Float high in ether's ambient tide,
Warm Courage beams from every eye,
Stern Indignation's pulse beats high,

And, kindling at the warlike sight,
Vengeance, with firm but temperate voice,
Responsive to a nation's choice,
Demands the promis'd fight!

How mild the sun's meridian rays!

How blue the heavens! how soft the breese

That o'er the waving forest plays,

And gently curls the rippling seas!

But soon November's wintry hour,
Arm'd with the tempest's tyrant power,

Shall rouse the clouds' embattled host,
Sweep from the woods their leafy pride,
And dash the waves infuriate tide

Against the howling coast!

* Eaglehurst commands a view of Spithead.