And when in death my peaceful ashes lie, If e'er some tongue congenial speaks my name, Friendship shall never blush to breathe a sigh, And great ones envy such an honest fame.' Cooper. THE CHELSEA PENSIONER. AN ELEGY. BENEATH that mouldering turret's gloomy shade, Where yonder pines their wide-spread branches A gallant veteran rests his weary head, [wave, And with him sleep his sorrows in the grave. No breathing art adorns the sacred ground, Points the tall spire, or bids the trophy rise, A scanty turf, with twisted osier bound, Scarce marks the spot where buried honour lies. Yet though no plumed steeds, no sable car, Flaunt their vain honours o'er thine humble bier; Yet on the margin of the path-worn green, To bid the turf lie lightly on thy breast. The thoughtless many, the misjudging crowd, But with the chosen band, the manly few, -(Scorning the pageantry of pomp, and place) Though she, whose beauty's all-enchanting pow'r Far from these dreary scenes for ever torn, No more shall animate each rapturous strain, Now sweetly smiling, now with looks of scorn, Hiding her heart, that sunk at giving pain : Yet when emerging from the giddy throng, Here while the scenes of former bliss arise, [flow) -Deaf to the voice of pleasure, or of fame, This aching breast shall heave one sigh for thee. Sir J. H. Moore. THE DEBTOR. AN ELEGY. CHILDREN of Affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r! O haste and free me from this dungeon's gloom; Let not the hand of comfortless despair Sink my gray hairs with sorrow to the tomb! Unus'd Compassion's tribute to demand, With clamorous din wake Charity's dull ear, Wring the slow aid from Pity's loitering hand, Weave the feign'd tale, or drop the ready tear. Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours, To view of bliss, to scenes of affluence born; The hand of pleasure strew'd my path with flow'rs, And every blessing hail'd my youthful morn. But ah, how quick the change !-the morning gleam, That cheer'd my fancy with her magic ray,, Such is the lot of human bliss below! Fond hope awhile the trembling flow'ret rears ; Till unforeseen descends the blight of wo, And withers in an hour the pride of years. In evil hour, to specious wiles a prey, I trusted :-(who from faults is always free?) And the short progress of one fatal day Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty. Where could I seek for comfort, or for aid ? To whom the ruins of my state commend? Left to myself, abandon'd, and betray'd, Too late I found the wretched have no friend ! E'en he amid the rest, the favour'd youth, Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand Though deeply hurt, yet sway'd by decent pride, And sunk in silent anguish to the grave. Children of Affluence, hear a poor man's prayer! O haste and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the band of comfortless despair Sink my gray hairs with sorrow to the tomb! Sir J. H. Moore. THE LEGACY. My dearest love! when thou and I must part, What is not worth the giving. I do owe Whose ashes and whose sins sleep in one tomb. |