The mouldering walls huge columns nod; no flame
Cheers the deserted mansion; and, alone,

The inhabitant thro' ancient cities roams.

Horrid with thorns, unplough'd for many a year,
Hesperia mourns her absent bands; not thou,
Ferocious Pyrrhus, nor the Punic chief

Such slaughter spread; for deeper are the wounds
Of civil discord than of foreign rage:

But if the fates no otherwise could bring
Our Nero's reign (as but for Giant wars

Heaven ne'er had serv'd the thunderer, as the gods
Dearly obtain their everlasting realms)

We do not, Powers, complain since guilt and woe
Educe such blessings. Tho' Pharsalian fields

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Are fill'd, and Punic ghosts appeas'd with gore- 40
Tho' Munda's plain be strewn with countless dead;
Tho' Cæsar's fate, famish'd Perusia's groan,
'Sieg'd Mutina, Leucadian rocks bestrewn

With many a wreck, these slaughters dire succeed;
And Servile wars near burning Ætna rage,
Rome is indebted still to civil war

Since wag'd for thee.

When late you seek the stars, Your task fulfill'd, the lofty domes of heaven Joyful shall clasp you, whether there to reign, Or mount the flaming chariot of the sun, When fearless earth shall view the wandering orb With milder lustre beam: to you each god Shall yield: whatever power you take, where'er You chuse your reign, Nature shall own your right. But nor in Northern climes erect your throne, Nor the warm realms of adverse Auster, whence, A distant star, you will behold your Rome. In middle heaven the balanc'd world sustain :

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For, if one part of yon expanse you press,
The pole will bend. Clear be the azure sky,
And let no cloud obscure great Cæsar's ray.
The human race shall then lay down their arms
To meet in general love; peace thro' the world
Shall warlike Janus' iron portals close.
Be thou my deity: nor inspir'd by thee
Will I from Cirrha call the awakening god,
Nor Bacchus from his Indian mountain; thou
Shalt to a Roman song thy nerve impart.

EPITAPH

ON JOHN ABBOT, ESQ. MANY YEARS THE BRITISH CONSUL AT ALEPPO. 1784.

BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.

YE

E, lofty spires! who wake the traveller's haste,
As, parch'd, he labours thro' the bordering waste;
Who, timely to his fainting soul foretell,

That here, tho' TURKS! the race of Adam dwell:
Henceforth a tale of different hue impart,

And probe the feelings of his social heart;

The form of Hospitality pourtray,

Bow'd, like a mourner, o'er her ARBOT's clay!

The BRITISH rights and honour to support,

Amid the wiles of a perfidious court,

The stranger's spirit at thy board to raise,

And, from the ARAB bear his local praise;

These, and each milder merit, Friend! were thineThese draw a pilgrim's homage to thy shrine!

TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTH DAY.

I.

THIS morn which decks each parent's brow

With mute affection's smile, to see
The cherished hope, the fervent vow,
The sanguine promise crown'd in thee,

II.

Inspires the muse with meditation:
She longs to trace, in Sybil strain,
This dawn's propitious renovation,
Through many a year unknown to pain:

And thus inspir'd she frames the lay-
When every grace, whose opening prime
A thousand nameless charms betray,
Shall own the fostering hand of Time;

IV.

prove

When those harmonious tones which
The constant temper's cloudless day,

And those enchanting smiles which rove
To cheer us with a transient ray,

V.

Directed with a loftier aim,

Their powerful magic shall employ The stubborn pride of grief to tame And woo it to rejected joy;

VI.

Some chosen partner's anxious breast,
Of every sorrow to beguile,
Till vanquish'd Care itself attest

Their triumph with an answering smile;

VII.

When all those talents which combine,
Thy fond admiring friends to cheer,
Shall with increasing splendour shine,
To decorate a wider sphere;

And when, perhaps, a mother's care
Shall bid a gentle progeny;
Those graces and those virtues share,
Which now so richly bloom in thee;

IX.

With rapture shall thy parents own,

That, while they form'd thy tender mind,
Though mov'd by partial love alone,
They dealt a blessing to mankind.

EPIGRAM.

.FROM THE GREEK.

THE Miser, Hermon, in a dream
Disburs'd a little of his pelf,
He woke, and in despair extreme
Away he went, and hang'd himself.

G. L. S.

++

I LOVE THEE.

CAN'ST thou forget life's sweetest hour?
Can'st thou forget the woodbine bower?
Where, on one delicious eve,

My falt'ring lips first dar'd to breathe

I love thee!

Around thy form my arm was twin'd;
Upon my breast thy cheek reclin'd;
When, bending o'er thy list'ning ear,
I breath'd, in sighs of hope and fear-

I love thee!

That blushing cheek you gently rais'd,
Upon my face a moment gaz'd;
Then instant on my breast conceal'd
The eyes whose melting glance reveal'd-

I love thee!

But, oh! 'twas not the glance alone,
Told me thy heart was all my own;
No! from thy lips a murmur stole,
That whisper'd to my ravish'd soul-

I love thee!

'Twas then I knew affection's kiss,
'Twas then I drank of heaven's bliss ;
For sure 'tis heaven's bliss we feel,
When lips of innocence reveal-

I love thee!