And you, Boscawen, while you fondly melt,

la raptures none but mothers ever felt; And as you view, prophetic, in your race, All Levison's sweetness, and all Beaufort's grace;

Yet dread what dangers each lov'd child may share,

The youth, if valiant, or the maid, if fair;
You who have felt, so frail is mortal joy!
That, while we clasp the phantom, we de-
stroy;

That perils multiply as blessings flow,
That sorrows grafted on enjoyments grow;
That clouds impending dim our brightest
views,

That who have most to love have most to lose;

Yet from these fair possessions would you part,

To shelter from contingent ills your heart? Would you forego the objects of your prayer To save the dangers of a distant care? Renounce the brightness op'ning to your

view

For all the safety dulness ever knew? Would you consent, to shun the fears you prove

That they should merit less, or you less love; Yet while we claim the sympathy divine, Which makes, O man, the woes of others

thine; While her fair triumphs swell the modish page,

She drives the sterner virtues from the stage: While Feeling boasts her ever tearful eye, Fair Truth, firm Faith, and manly Justice

fly: Justice, prime good! from whose prolific law,

All worth, all virtue, their strong essence draw;

Justice, a grace quite obsolete we hold,
The feign'd Astrea of an age of gold:
The sterling attribute we scarcely own,
While spurious Candour fills the vacant

throne.

Sweet Sensibility! Thou secret pow'r Who shed'st thy gifts upon the natal hour, Like fairy favours; Art can never seize, Nor Affectation catch thy power to please; Thy subtile essence still eludes the chains Of Definition, and defeats her pains. Sweet Sensibility! thou keen delight! Loprompted inoral! sudden sense of right! Perception exquisite ! fair Virtue's seed! Thou quick precursor of the lib'ral deed! Thou hasty conscience! reason's blushing

morn!

Instinctive kindness e'er reflection's born!
Prompt sense of equity! to thee belongs
The swift redress of unexamin'd wrongs!
Eager to serve, the cause perhaps untried,
But always apt to chuse the suff'ring side!
To those who know thee not, no word; can
paint,

And those who know thee, know all words are faint!

She does not feel thy pow'r who boasts thy flame,

And rounds her every period with thy name; Nor she who vents her disproportion'd sighs With pining Lesbia when her sparrow dies: Nor she who melts when hapless Shore expires,

While real mis'ry unreliev'd retires!

Who thinks feign'd sorrow all her tears de

serve,

And weeps o'er Werter while her children

starve,

As words are but th' external marks to tell

The fair ideas in the mind that dwell;
And only are of things the outward sign,
And not the things themselves they but de-
fine;

So exclamations, tender tones, fond tears,
And all the graceful drapery Feeling wears;
These are her garb, not her, they but ex-
'press

Her form, her semblance, her appropriate dress;

And these fair marks, reluctant I relate, These lovely symbols may be counterfeit. There are, who fili with brilliant plaints the page,

If a poor linnet meet the gunner's rage; There are, who for a dying fawn deplore, As if friend, parent, country, were no more; Who boast quick rapture trembling in their

eye,

If from the spider's snare they snatch a fly; There are, whose well sung plaints cach breast inflame,

And break all hearts-but his from whom they came!

He, scorning life's low duties to attend, Writes odes on friendship, while he cheats his friend.

Of jails and punishments he grieves to hear,
And pensions 'prison'd virtue with a tear;
While unpaid bills his creditor presents,
And ruin'd innocence his crime laments,
Not so the tender moralist of Tweed,
His gen'rous man of feeling feels indeed.

O Love divine ! sole source of charity! More dear one genuine deed perform'd for thee,

Than all the periods Feeling e'er could turn, Than all thy touching page, perverted Sterne !

Not that by deeds alone this love's express'd,

If so the affluent only were the bless'd; One silent wish, one prayer, one soothing word,

The page of mercy shall, well-pleas'd record;

One soul-felt sigh by pow'rless pity given, Accepted incense! shall ascend to heav'n!

Since trifles make the sum of human things,

And half our misery from our foibles springs, Since life's best joys consist in peace and [please; And though but few can serve, yet all may

ease,

The gift of minist'ring to other's ease,
To all her sons impartial she decrees;
The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flattery, and all price above;
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault,
The angry word suppress'd, the taunting
thought;

Subduing and subdu'd, the petty strife,
Which clouds the colour of domestic life;
The sober comfort, all the peace which
springs,

From the large aggregate of little things; On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,

The almost sacred joys of home depend:
There Sensibility, thou best may'st reign,
Home is thy true legitimate domain.
A solitary bliss thou ne'er could'st find,
Thy joys with those thou lov'st are inter-
twin'd;

And he whose helpless tenderness removes The rankling thorn which wounds the breast he loves,

Smooths not another's rugged path alone, But clears th' obstruction which impedes his

Own.

The hint malevolent, the look oblique, The obvious satire, or implied dislike; The sneer equivocal, the harsh reply, And all the cruel language of the eye; The artful injury, whose venom'd dart, Scarce wounds the hearing, while it stabs the heart;

The guarded phrase, whose meaning kills, yet told

The list'ner wonders, how you thought it cold;

Small slights, neglect, unmix'd perhaps with hate,

Make up in number what they want in weight.

These and a thousand grief minute as these, Corrode our comfort and destroy our case. As Feeling tends to good or leans to ill, It gives fresh force to vice or principle; 'Tis not a gift peculiar to the good, 'Tis often but the virtue of the blood: And what would seem compassion's moral flow,

Is but a circulation swift or slow:

But to divert it to its proper course, There wisdom's pow'r appears, there reason's force:

If ill-directed it pursue the wrong,

It adds new strength to what before was strong;

Breaks out in wild irregular desires,
Disorder'd passions, and illicit fires;
Without, deforms the man, depraves within,
And makes the work of God the slave of
sin.

But if Religion's bias rule the soul,
Then Sensibility exalts the whole;
Sheds its sweet sunshine on the moral part,
Nor wastes on fancy what should warm the
heart.

Cold and inert the mental powers would lie,
Without this quick'ning spark of Deity.
To melt the rich materials from the mine,
To bid the mass of intellect refine,
To bend the firm, to animate the cold,
And heav'ns own image stamp on Nature's
gold;

To give immortal mind its finest tone,
Oh, Sensibility! is all thy own.
This is th' eternal flame which lights and

warms,

In song enchants us, and in action charms. 'Tis this that makes the pensive strains of Gray*

Win to the open heart their easy way; Makes the touch'd spirit glow with kindred fire,

When sweet Serena's poet wakes the lyre : Makes Portland's face its brightest rapture

seize,

And gives Boscawen half her pow'r to please.

Yet why those terrors? Why that anxious care?

Since your last hopet the deathful war will dare?

Why dread that energy of soul which leads
To dang'rous glory by heroic deeds?
Why mourn to view his ardent soul aspire?
You fear the son because you knew the sire.
Hereditary valeur you deplore,

And dread, yet wish to find one hero more.

This is meant of the Elegy in a Country Church yard, of which exquisite poem Sensibility is perhaps the characteristic beauty.

Viscount Falmouth, admiral Boscawen's only remaining son was then in America, and at the battle of Lexington.

THERE was a young and valiant knight,
Sir ELDRED was his name,

And never did a worthier wight
The rank of knighthood claim.

Where gliding Tay, her stream sends forth,
To feed the neighbouring wood,
The ancient glory of the north,
Sir Eldred's castle stood.

The night was rich as knight might be
In patrimonial wealth;
And rich in nature's gift was he,

In youth, and strength, and health.
He did not think, as some have thought,
Whom honour never crown'd,
The fame a father dearly bought,
Could make the son renown'd.
He better thought, a noble sire,
Who gallant deeds had done,
To deeds of hardihood should fire
A brave and gallant son.
The fairest ancestry on earth
Without desert is poor;
And ev'ry deed of former worth
Is but a claim for more.

Sir Eldred's heart was ever kind,
Alive to pity's call;

A crowd of virtues grac'd his mind,
He lov'd and felt for all.

When merit rais'd the sufferer's name,

He show'r'd his bounty then;

And those who could not prove that claim,
He succour'd still as men.

But sacred truth the muse compels
His errors to impart;

And yet the muse reluctant tells
The fault of Eldred's heart.
Though mild and soft as infant love
His fond affections melt;
Though all that kindest spirits prove
Sir Eldred keenly felt:
Yet if the passions storm'd his soul,
By jealousy led on;

The fierce resentment scorn'd control,
And bore his virtues down,
Not Thule's waves so widely break
To drown the northern shore;
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake,
Or Scythia's tempest roar.

As when in summer's sweetest day

To fan the fragrant morn,

The sighing breezes softly stray
O er fields of ripen'd corn;
Sudden the lightning's blast descends,
Deforms the ravag'd fields;

At once the various ruin blends,

And all resistless vields.
But when, to clear his stormy breast,
The sun of reason shone,
And ebbing passions sunk to rest,

And show'd what rage had done :
O then what anguish lie betray'd!
His shame how deep, how true!
He view'd the waste his rage had made,
And shudder'd at the view.
The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe,
Proclaim'd the op'ning day,

Up rose the sun to gild the globe,
And hail the new-born May;
The birds their vernal notes repeat,
And glad the thick'ning grove;
And feather'd partners fondly greet
With many a song of love:
When pious Eldred early rose
The Lord of all to hail;

Who life with all its gifts bestows,

Whose mercies never fail!

That done-he left his woodland glade,

And journey'd far away;

He lov'd to court the distant shade,
And through the lone vale stray.
Within the bosom of a wood,

By circling hills embrac'd,
A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of taste;
While many a prouder castle fell,
This safely did endure;

The house where guardian virtues dwell
Is sacred and secure.

Of eglantine an humble fence

Around the mansion stood,

Which serv'd at once to charm the sense,

And screen an infant wood.

The wood receiv'd an added grace,

As pleas'd it bent to look,

And view'd its ever verdant face
Reflected in a brook :

The smallness of the stream did well
The master's fortunes show;

But little streams may serve to tell

The source from they flow.
This mansion own'd an aged knight,
And such a man was he,

As heaven just shows to human sight,
To tell what man should be.
His youth in many a well-fought field
Was train'd betimes to war:
His bosom, like a well-worn shield,
Was grac'd with many a scar.
The vigour of a green
old age
His reverend form did bear;
And yet, alas! the warrior-sage
Had drain'd the dregs of care:
And sorrow more than age can break,
And wound its hapless prey,
'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek,
And turn'd his bright locks gray.
One darling daughter sooth'd his cares,
A young and beauteous dame,
Sole comfort of his failing years,
And Birtha was her name.
Her heart a little sacred shrine,
Where all the Virtues meet,
And holy Hope and Faith divine
Had claim'd it for their seat.

She lov'd to raise her fragrant bower
Of wild and rustic taste,

And there she screen'd each fav'rite flower
From ev'ry ruder blast ;

And not a shrub or plant was there
But did some moral yield;
For wisdom, by a father's care,
Was found in ev'ry field.

The trees, whose foliage fell away,
And with the summer died,
He thought an image of decay
Might lecture human pride :
While fair perennial greens that stood,
And brav'd the wintry blast,
As types of the fair mind be view'd,
Which shall for ever last.

He taught her that the gaudiest flowers
Were seldom fragrant found,
But wasted soon their little powers,
Dropt useless on the ground :

While the sweet-scented rose shall last,
And still retain its power,
When life's imperfect day is past
And beauty's shorter hour.

And here the virgin lov'd to lead
Her inoffensive day,

And here she oft retir'd to read,

And oft retir'd to pray.

And bless me most by blessing him,
Whom more than life I love.'
She starts to hear a stranger's voice,
And with a modest grace,
She lifts her meek eye in surprise,
And sees a stranger's face :
The stranger lost in transport stood,
Bereft of voice and power,

While she with equal wonder view'd
Sir Eldred of the bower.

The virgin blush which spreads her cheek
With nature's purest dye,

And all those dazzling beams which break
Like morning from her eye-

He view'd them all, and as he view'd
Drank deeply of delight;

And still his raptur'd eye pursued,
And feasted on the sight.
With silent wonder long they gaz'd
And neither silence broke;

At length the smother'd passion blaz'd,
Enamour'd Eldred spoke :

'O sacred virtue, heav'nly power!
Thy wond'rous force I feel:
I gaze, I tremble, I adore,

Yet die my love to tell.

My scorn has oft the dart repell'd
Which guileful beauty threw;
But goodness heard, and grace beheld,
Must every heart subdue.’

Quick on the ground her eyes were cast,
And now as quickly rais'd :—
Just then her father hap❜ly past,

On whom she trembling gaz'd.

Good Ardolph's eye his Bertha meets
With glances of delight;

And thus with courteous speech he greets
The young and graceful knight.

"O gallant youth, whoe'er thou art,
Right welcome to this place!
There's something rises at my heart
Which says I've seen that face.'
"Thou gen'rous knight,' the youth rejoin'd,
Though little known to fame,

I trust I bear a grateful mind—
Sir Eldred is my name.'

'Sir Eldred?'-Árdolph loud exclaim'd
'Renown'd for worth and power?

For valour and for virtue fam'd,

Sir Eldred of the bower?

Now make me grateful, righteous heaven, As thou art good to me,

Since to my aged eyes 'tis given

Sir Eldred's son to see!'

From courts and cities far,

The pride of Caledonian maids,

The peerless northern star.

As shines that bright and lucid star,
The glory of the night,

When beaming through the cloudless air,
She sheds her silver light:

So Birtha shone !-But when she spoke
The muse herself was heard,
As on the ravish'd air she broke,

And thus her prayer preferr❜d :
"O bless thy Birtha, Power Supreme,
In whom I live and move,

And gaz'd upon his face,

And to his aged bosom strain'd,

With many a kind embrace.
Again he view'd him o'er and o'er,
And doubted still the truth,

And ask'd what he had ask'd before,
Then thus addresst the youth:
'Come now beneath my roof, I pray,
Some needful rest to take,
And with us many a cheerful day,
Thy friendly sojourn make !;
He enter'd at the gate straightway,
Some needful rest to take;

And with them many a cheerful day Did friendly sojourn make.

PART II.

ONCE—in a social summer's walk,
The gaudy day was fled;

They cheated time with cheerful talk,
When thus Sir Ardolph said:
'Thy father was the firmest friend
That e'er my being blest;
And every virtue heaven could send,
Fast bound him to my breast,
Together did we learn to bear
The casque and ample shield;
Together learn in many a war
The deathful spear to wield.
To make our union still more dear,
We both were doom'd to prove,
What is most sweet and most severe
In heart dissolving love.

The daughter of a neighbouring knight
Did my fond heart engage;

And ne'er did heaven the virtues write
Upon a fairer page,

His bosom felt an equal wound,
Nor sigh'd we long in vain;
One summer's sun beheld us bound
In Hymen's holy chain.

Thou wast Sir ELDRED'S only child,
Thy father's darling joy ;
On me a lovely daughter smil'd
On me a blooming boy.

But man has woes, has clouds of care,
That dim his star of life-
My arms receiv'd the little pair,
The earth's cold breast, my wife.
Forgive, thou gentle knight, forgive,
Fond foolish tears will flow;

One day like mine thy heart may heave,
And mourn its lot of wo.

But grant, kind heaven ! thou ne'er may'st know

The pangs I now impart ;

Nor even feel the parting blow
That rives a husband's heart.

Beside the blooming banks of Tay,
My angel's ashes sleep;

And wherefore should her Ardolph stay,
Except to watch and weep?
I bore my beauteous babes away
With many a gushing tear;
I left the blooming banks of Tay,
And brought my darlings here.
I watch'd my little household cares,
And formed their growing youth;
And fondly train'd their infant years
To piety and truth.'

Thy blooming Birtha here I see,'
Sir Eldred strait rejoin'd ;
"But why thy son is not with thee,
Resolve my doubting mind.'
When Birtha did the question hear;
She sigh'd, but could not speak ;
And many a soft and silent tear
Stray'd down her damask cheek.

Then pass'd o'er good Sir Ardolph's face,
A cast of deadly pale;
VOL. I.

6

Yet sweet is death when earn'd with fame-
So virtuous Edwy thought.

Full manfully the brave boy strove,
Though pressing ranks oppose;
But weak the strongest arm must prove
Against an host of foes.

A deadly wound my son receives,
A spear assails his side :

Grief does not kill—for Ardolph lives
To tell that Edwy died.
His long-lov'd mother died again
In Edwy's parting groan;

I wept for her, yet wept in vain-
I wept for both in one.

I would have died-I sought to die,
But heaven restrain'd the thought,
And to my passion-clouded eye
My helpless Birtha brought.
When lo! array'd in robes of light,
A nymph celestial came,

She clear'd the mists that dimm'd my sight-
Religion was her name.

She prov'd the chastisement divine,
And bade me kiss the rod ;
She taught this rebel heart of mine
Submission to its God.
Religion taught me to sustain

What nature bade me feel;
And piety reliev'd the pain
Which time can never heal.'
He ceas'd-with sorrow and delight
The tale Sir Eldred hears:

Then weeping cries—Thou noble knight,
For thanks accept my tears.
O Ardolph, might I dare aspire
To claim so bright a boon!-
Good old Sir Eldred was my sire-
And thou hast lost a son.
And though I want a worthier plea
To urge so dear a cause ;

Yet, let me to thy bosom be

What once thy Edwy was.
My trembling tongue its aid denies ;
For thou may'st disapprove;

Then read it in my ardent eyes,
Oh! read the tale of love.

Thy beauteous Birtha!'-'Gracious power!
How could I e'er repine,'