That owns no decent grave, no letter'd pile, Yet strangers to thy fate, The safe return of injur'd innocence ! Or soothe declining age. Then share, come share with me my humble shed, And heal with friendly balms, EDWIN. BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. THE gales, across the heathy gloom, 'Tis his! the child of feeling dear- As tolls the fatal knell. Why heaven?-down impious heart; nor dare On whom to lay the rod. Young Edwin to illustrious birth Far better-his own modest worth Nurs'd among thorns the flow'ret grew, To bring its beauties forth to view, Or guard from noxious air : While in the finish'd border's side, Their tasteless bells, in conscious pride, Sole tenants of the bed. He ever felt another's woe With unaffected grief, Nor thought with some that to bestow An ear could bring relief. No; active charity was his, And deeply did he scorn The hollow world, that proffers bliss- The peasant's sorrowing soul to ease Each knee receiv'd a chubby wight, Would turn his buttons to the light, Or tell, with hands twin'd o'er their heads, Of all their joys-of all their dreads, Since they had seen him last. The taunts of those, who should have bless'd Rais'd no resentment in his breast He pitied, and forgave. Lost in the dream which genius knows, Oft have I mark'd him by yon hut, Nor heeding those around. The worldling's vain pursuits to him At times in nature-prompted lays But though his strains no polish knew, Yet from his reader's eye they drew The tinkling stream, that speeds along On its glad banks in some lone nook, Or watch the feather on its tide While moralizing on the sight A pearly drop would gem His eyelid, with which Pity might Have deck'd her diadem. Such were the pleasures he pursu❜d, Still would he ever humbly kneel, And thank that great first cause, That God who gives the power to feel, Who fram'd earth's wond'rous laws. Poor Edwin! eighteen springs had he When Fate's inscrutable decree Dealt out the mortal blow. Disease assail'd his slender frame, Poor Edwin! to thy grave I'll turn, Banks of Pimblemere. [Mr. EDITOR, At Ednam, in the west of Scotland, on the 22d September, the birthday of the celebrated author of the "Seasons" is kept with all the reverence due to the name of a poet universally admired, and all the enthusiasm of affection for his memory as a native of that part of the country. The bust of the bard is crowned with laurel, the nymphs and the swains foot it on the green to the sound of the tabor, and the day closes with jollity and song. A gentleman, whose friendship I hold very dear, and whose correspondence I value very much, has communicated to me the following Ode for this occasion, a copy of which I should like to see inserted in your miscellany, provided you have as great a regard for the memory of the "Poet of the Year” as has your obedient servant, C.] AN ODE FOR THE BIRTH-DAY OF JAMES THOMSON, ALL hail, thou bright, propitious day; Long shalt thou be to Britain dear; And may thy dawning orient ray With lustre crown the circling year. Awake, sweet Morn, and plume thy wing, Thy son's sweet natal morn at hand. And O! dear, consecrated scene, On thee may Spring her verdure shed, In Autumn may thy fertile vales Be crown'd with sheaves, rich as his song, And may each son of thy soft dales Be as their poet's Winter strong. Hither let every Scotian bard Come, and a grateful tribute pay; And thou, O B-, whose magic pen O bring with thee thy Doric reed, And you, ye modest virgins fair, With glowing breast this scene attend, To crown his name a wreath prepare, For he was yours and virtue's friend. He well could warn your sliding hearts, To guard against the infectious wound, Which adulation smooth imparts, When Ev'ning draws her curtain round. And when on Ednam's verdant top In modest beauty you appear, |