Here together we have hop'd,
While our future profpect op'd,
Mutual aid might, in life's dell,
Every gloomy ftorm difpel.
Yet I now, in lonely state,
Mournful by our parting fate,
On this foothing rock reclin'd,
Strive to cheat my widow'd mind,

Faintly beams the twilight ray,
Bidding hence the languish'd day.
Sober'd hills in drefs obfcure
Sit around, in plight demure,
Paffing by with sprightly ease,
Now the kindly-temper'd breeze
Wings the plaintive founds of night.
Mingled in their dizzy flight,
Comes the cricket's thrilling tone
With the owl's pedantic moan,
Choruffing the wakeful lay
Of the brook, in merry play.

Fancy ftill presents around
Scenes remote, where joys abound ;
But no fcene devoid of thee,
Brightens with harmonious glee,
None, but thy remembered voice,
Bids the mingled founds rejoice.
Naught in all the fpacious maze,
But thy image holds my gaze,

ΤΟ Λ

A YOUNG DIVINE,

ON HIS ORDINATION DAY.

SOME angel guard my wandering muse,

Nor let her rove in vain ;

My liftening ftrings can ne'er refuse
To join a hallow'd strain.

Each tender nerve, that strings the heart,
Shall wake to life and fenfe,
While thou, Philander, themes impart,

That pureft charms dispense.

When e're thy facred task I view,

Commiffion'd from the skies,
Old error bids the world adieu
And joyful funs arife.

Salvation hails the ushering day,
While truths infpire your tongue;
And finners hear their guilt away,
And rapture wakes to fong.

Devotion spreads her flaming wings,
And with an upward eye
Through boundlefs lengths of ether springs
And claims her native sky.

Religion owns thy guardian hand,

And flopes a downward flight.
Peace and good will on her attend,
And God and men unite.

While basking in the beams of grace
The dreary wilds fhall bloom;

And every folitary place

A laughing vale become.

The thirsty meads fhall new fupplies
From warbling fountains drain,
While on their banks a Sharon lies,
A Carmel on each plain.

Thus fhall immortal beauties fpring,
While thou their charms improve ;

Till angels bend the fhining wing
To waft you fafe above,

And when in robes of ftreaming light,
Thou tread'ft the ftarry zone,

Symphonious choirs fhall fhout thy fight
Around the blazing throne.

Nor fhall a fancied. God infpire,

As poets, fabling, tell.

Gabriel for thee fhall ftring the lyre,

And God himself reveal.

And when you touch each warbling ftring,
On yon celeftial ground,

Echo through unknown Worlds fhall ring,
And lift'ning space refound.

CLEORA.

Selected Poetry.

GILIMER,

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

GILIMFR was the last of the Vandal kings of Africa, conquered by

BELISARIUS; he retired to the heights of Pappua, when his afmy was entirely beaten.-His answer to the meffage fent to him there by Belifarius, is well known. He defired the conqueror to fend him a loaf of bread, a fponge, and a lute. This requeft was thus explained; that the king had not tafled any baked bread, fince his arrival on that mountain, and that he carnestly longed to eat a morfel of it, before he died; the sponge he wanted to allay a tumour, that was fallen upon one of his eyes; and the lute, on which he had learned to play, was to aflift him in fetting fome elegiac verses, which he had composed on the fubject of his misfortunes.

HENCE, foldier, to thy plumed chief;

Tell him, that Afric's king,

Broken by years, and bow'd with grief,
Afks but a lute, that he may fing

His forrows to the moon; or (if he weep)
A fponge, which he in tears may steep;
And let his pity fpare a little bread!

Such, Gilimer, was thy laft prayer
To him, who o'er thy realm his gay hoft led,

When thou forlorn, and frozen with despair,

Didft fit on Pappua's heights alone,

Mourning thy fortune loft, thy crown, thy kingdom gone.

When 'twas still night, and on the mountain valt
The moon her tranquil glimmer caft,

From tent to tent, remotely fpread around,
He heard the murm'ring army's hoftile found,
And fwell'd from his fad lute a folemn tone,
Whilft the lone vallies echo'd-" All is gone!"

The fun from darkness rofe,

Illumining the landscape wide,

The tents, the far-off fhips, and the pale morning tide > Now the prophetic fong indignant flows.

Thine, Roman, is the victory

Roman, the wide world is thine-
In every clime the eagles fly,

And the gay fquadron's length'ning line,
That flashes far and near,

It flouting banners, as in fcorn, displays,
Trump answers trump, to war-horse war-horse neighs

I fink forfaken here

This rugged rock my empire, and this feat
Of folitude, my glory's laft retreat!

Yet boast not thou,

Soldier, the laurels on thy victor brow,

They fhall wither, and thy fate,

Leave thee, like me, despairing, desolate!

With haggard beard, and bleeding eyes,
The conqueror of Afric lies*—

Where now his glory's crested helm ?

Where now his marfhall'd legions thronging bright,
His steeds, his trumpets, clanging to the fight,
That spread difmay through Perfia's bleeding realm ?

Now fee him poorly led,

Begging in age his fcanty bread!

Proud victor, do our fates agree?

Doft thou now REMEMBER ME

Alluding to the fuppofed miferable state of Belifarius in his old age.

*

Me, of every hope bereft ;

Me, to scorn and ruin left ?

So may despair thy last lone hours attend !—
That thou too, in thy turn, may'st know,
How doubly sharp the woe-

When from fortune's fummit hurl'd,

We gaze around on all the world,
And find in all the world No friend↓

VERSES*

Written, in confequence of the author's being reproached for not weeping over the dead body of a female friend.

BY ANTHONY PASQUIN, ESQ

COLD drops the tear which blazons common woe :

What callous rock retains its chrystal rill?

Ne'er will the foften'd mould its liquid flow:
Deep fink the waters that are smooth and still!

Ah! when fublimely agoniz'd I ftood,

And Memory gave her beauteous frame a figh: While Feeling triumph'd in my heart's warm flood; Grief drank the offering ere it reach'd the eye!

* This little instance of refined fentiment has been tranflated into German, by Klopstock; into Italian, by Count Savelli of Corfica, and inte French, by Count Joseph Augustus De Maccarthy.