Here together we have hop'd, Faintly beams the twilight ray, Fancy ftill presents around 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 Each tender nerve, that strings the heart, That pureft charms dispense. When e're thy facred task I view, Commiffion'd from the skies, Salvation hails the ushering day, Devotion spreads her flaming wings, Religion owns thy guardian hand, And flopes a downward flight. While basking in the beams of grace And every folitary place A laughing vale become. The thirsty meads fhall new fupplies Thus fhall immortal beauties fpring, Till angels bend the fhining wing And when in robes of ftreaming light, Symphonious choirs fhall fhout thy fight 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, Echo through unknown Worlds fhall ring, 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, His forrows to the moon; or (if he weep) Such, Gilimer, was thy laft prayer 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 From tent to tent, remotely fpread around, 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- And the gay fquadron's length'ning line, It flouting banners, as in fcorn, displays, I fink forfaken here This rugged rock my empire, and this feat 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, Where now his glory's crested helm ? Where now his marfhall'd legions thronging bright, 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 !— When from fortune's fummit hurl'd, We gaze around on all the world, 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: 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. |