Yet the same hour which summons from their graves

His mould'ring kindred on Britannia's shore,

And the same trump, resounding o'er the waves,
Shall bid the Indian dead to sleep no more.

And say, when summon'd to the realms on high,
If to the soul eternal bliss be given;

What boots it where we heave our parting sigh?

"Or whence the soul triumphant springs to heaven?"

When Howard's spirit, from Tartarian plains,

Wing'd its glad flight to virtue's blest abode,

Seraphic harps awoke celestial strains,

Attendant angels guided it to God.

Mourn not the virtuous dead; the living claim
Far more than they the pensive, friendly tear;
Be it o'er suffering innocence thy aim

To shed the balm of sympathy sincere.

Go teach the maid, who mourns in silent grief

Fraternal ties by death's stern mandate broke,

To seek in resignation for relief,

And bow submissive to the afflictive stroke.

Teach her to add to every winning grace,

Which art and nature lavishly bestow;

That greatest charm, which time can ne'er efface,

Humble devotion's animating glow.

Bid her by revelation's light explore

Pleasures remote, and joys beyond the tomb.

Then may exulting faith triumphant soar

Where heavenly peace shall smile, and bliss im

mortal bloom.

ΤΟ

WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

ON READING HIS

Lady of the Lake.

MINSTREL! why hangs on yonder elm unstrung

That harp whose strains' to listening thousands dear, Could, when thy hand across its strings was flung, Both touch the heart, and captivate the ear?

If valour's partial smile, or beauty's tear

Repaid in earlier time its magic strain,

Small cause hast thou, enchanting bard! to fear That thou the lay shalt ever tune in vain,

Rejoice without applause, without redress complain.

"Tis thine with fairy pencil to pourtray

The striking beauties of the highland scene; The lonely glen, where scarce the solar ray

Can penetrate the spreading boughs between; The towering crags, bedeck'd with foliage green,

The lake which laves the foot of Benvenue,

Now dark with clouds, now bright with summer sheen; The landscape's varied charms delight the view, Glittering in morning's beams, or evening's richer hue.

Whether thy song commemorate the Graeme,

Or prompt for Douglas the relenting sigh;

Or royal James, disguis'd in humble name,
Or savage Roderick, Alpine's chief be nigh;

Or whether pearly drop from Ellen's eye

Awake the gentler feelings of the heart;

'Tis thine, bewitching bard! each theme to try

Which joy, or grief, or wonder can impart ;

Can cause the breast to throb or pitying tear to start.

Oh! strike once more the Caledonian Lyre,

Which silent hangs on Fillan's wizard tree; The flowing numbers fancy shall inspire,

And breathe a Lay romantic, rich, and free. From barren Caithness to the southern sea,

Shall every clan unite to spread thy fame;

Each scotish maid shall weave a wreath for thee,

Each rocky cliff reverberate thy name,

And every tongue combine thy glory to proclaim.