Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care, To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?

Oh! loss beyond repair!

Oh! wretched father left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune and my own!
Tell how her manners by the world refin'd,
Left all the taint of modish vice behind,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid truth's simplicity,

And uncorrupted innocence!

Tell how to more than manly sense,
She join❜d the softening influence,
Of more than female tenderness.

A prudence undeceiving, undeceived,
That not too little, nor too much believ'd,
That scorn'd unjust suspicion's coward fear,
And without weakness, knew to be sincere.

LINES,

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,

WHO DIED IN NEW-YORK, August, 1804.

DEATH ling'ring strikes-at his approach
The trembling spirits faint and die;
Pale sickness sinks upon his couch,
And heaves the painful, parting sigh.

In vain, for moments of delay,

Shall beauty plead with magic power; Relentless he selects his prey,

And grasps the brightest-sweetest flower.

The youthful heart, with pleasure wild,
Elate with mirth-with fancy gay;
Soon by his icy touch is chill'd,
And life's bright visions fleet away.
Thus did Eliza's moments fly

On wings of joy, with prospects fair;
While cloudless was her present sky,
And hope, fond hope, her guiding star.

From envy's grasp, with malice arm'd,
Her artless smile his weapon stole;
With transport strange the monster warm'd,
And wak'd to love his gloomy soul.

But why fond mem'ry-why recall

Those charms which late such pleasure gave, Since now Eliza-reft of all—

Lies cold-the tenant of the grave.

Pale are those cheeks of roseate dye,
Their dimpling smiles for ever flown;
Dim is the brightness of that eye,

Which once with sparkling lustre shone.

Mute is that voice whose accents sweet,
The ear of fond attention drew;
Still is that heart which constant beat,
To every gentle virtue true.

Alas! shall death for ever reign
Triumphant near each scene of bliss?
Blast young desire-turn joy to pain,
And riot on such spoil as this?

Frail mortal, cease-no longer mourn,
This vain regret-these murmurs still;
The varying change from nature learn,
And bow to the Almighty will.

The flower, that fair its bosom spreads,
And joys to hail the solar ray,
At evening fades-yet only fades
To bloom afresh at op'ning day.
To woodlands barren to the sight,
New foliage vernal gales shall bring;
The insect sleeps the wint❜ry night,
And flutters on the breath of spring.

Thus, when death's long, long night is o'er,
In realms of bliss shall beauty rise;
Array'd with charms that fade no more,
In climes where virtue never dies.

THE HARP OF SORROW.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY,

AUTHOR OF THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.

I GAVE my harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the cords so long,
They will not speak at my command,
They warble only to her song:

Of dear departed hours,

Too fondly loved to last,

The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers, That died untimely in the blast:

Of long, long years of future care,

Till lingering nature yields her breath;

And endless ages of despair,

Beneath the judgment day of death:

The weeping minstrel sings,

And while her numbers flow,
My spirit trembles thro' the strings,
And every note is full of wo.

Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
And wake this wild harp's clearest tones,
The chords, impatient to complain,
Are dumb, or only utter moans.

And yet, to soothe the mind
With luxury or grief,

The soul to sufferings all resign'd,
In Sorrow's music feels relief.

Thus o'er the light Eolian lyre,

The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of ev'ry wire, And on its magic pulses play;

Till all the air around,

Mysterious murmurs fill;

A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet-yet mournful still.

O snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long;
O strike it with sublime command,
And be the poet's life thy song!

Of vanish'd troubles sing,
Of fears for ever fled,

Of flowers, that hear the voice of spring,
And burst and blossom from the dead!

Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serené delights, while years increase;
And weary life's triumphant close,
In some calm sunset hour of peace;

Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of youth,
Unchanging as Jehovah's love,
And everlasting as his truth.

Sing heavenly Hope-and dart thy hand
O'er my frail harp, untun'd so long;
That harp shall breathe at thy command,
Immortal sweetness thro' thy song.
Ah! then this gloom controul,
And at thy voice will start
A new creation in my soul,

And a new Eden in my heart!

Sheffield, Sept. 29, 1806.

CHARACTER OF WOMEN.*

THROUGH many a land and clime a ranger, With toilsome steps I've held my way;

A lonely, unprotected stranger,

To stranger's ills a constant prey.

While steering thus my course precarious,
My fortune ever was to find
Men's hearts and dispositions various,
But women grateful, true and kind.
Alive to ev'ry tender feeling,

To deeds of mercy always prone,
The wounds of pain and sorrow healing,
With soft compassion's sweetest tone.
No proud delay, no dark suspicion,
Taints the free bounty of their heart,
They turn not from the sad petition,
But cheerful aid at once impart.

Form'd in benevolence of nature,
Obliging, modest, gay and mild,
Woman's the same endearing creature,
In courtly town, or savage wild.

Z

* See page 58.