There trade's adventurous son, from toils retired,
Stills each high passion, bids his wanderings cease;
There the scarred warrior, once by glory fir'd,
Asks but one boon ;-to pass away in peace.
Nor noised, nor noticed, their departing days,
Soft as the shelter'd stream, in silence flow;
In heaven-bent thought, in penitence and praise,
They find a calm, the world could ne'er bestow.
Ah! what that world?-hopes thwarted, vain concerns; Mirth's poison'd bowl, false friendship's treacherous Soon, source of Good, the wearied soul discerns [kiss; Alone in thee, contentment, rapture, bliss.
Say, holy shades, were life's thin flame restor❜d,
Say would not wisdom prompt an earlier flight;
The world less prized: th' Eternal more adored ?
-They sigh assent, and vanish from my sight.
Yes! shall their voice my wayward footsteps bend,
Yet not to rest, remote in Hermit cell;
To fight, not flee, my choice;-my post defend;
Act for mankind;-with Heaven's high circle dwell
And oft, at darkening eve's reflective hour,
From cares that harass, pleasures that beguile; Stray to thy shade-wrapt courts, thy moss-grown tower, Thy gloom and grandeur, venerable pile.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF RICHARD
JAMES MOIR.
Who departed this Life, July 25, 1810, in the Twentieth Year of his Age, und lies interred in Nazing Church, Essex.
On the dark yew too long the lyre hath hung,
And left, unjustly left, thy loss unsung-
Yet not unfelt for oft' our tears were shed,
The Muse was silent-but our hearts have bled!
Oh! early summon'd from this lower sphere,
T'enjoy the Heav'n thy virtues won thee here;
Oh! early snatch'd in manhood's opening bloom,
To the still marble slumbers of the tomb,
When we had hop'd to see enlarg'd life's span,
Thy youth of promise ripen into man,
Nor thought, call'd forth by Spring's deceitful breath,
Those buds would feel the wint'ry blast of Death.
My brother! joyous was thy morning scene,
No clouds of care disturb'd the sweet serene;
Hope pleasing smil'd, and Nature kindly grac'd
Thy form with beauty, and thy soul with taste;
Endear'd to all by worth, and manners kind,
And the rich knowledge of a vigorous mind-
No passions there a whelming tide to roll,
To stain thy virgin purity of soul,
But chasten'd wishes, and a temper even,
And piety that lifts the heart to Heaven.
And was thy noon o'ercast?-Oh! sickness shed
Its bitterest vial on thy patient head-
Oh! long the Hydra-headed fiend conspir'd
To mar the calm Religion had inspir'd,
But tried in vain-for though thy heart was rent,
Unstrung thy nerves, and all thy vigour spent,
Thy ardent love, thy native strength of mind,
Thy grace, and gentleness yet staid behind,
And shed around thee, to Affliction giv'n,
The holy radiance of a child of Heav'n.
Oh! can we e'er forget that awful day,
Ere the soul fled its tenement of clay,
When round his bed, we wept, and knelt, and pray'd
For that release by Death so long delay'd.
"Oh! I am thankful still," the sufferer cried,
"Thankful to God for every want supplied-
"For His Son's blood to wash my sins away,
"For His own smiles that beam eternal day,
"My God! my God!"-the lengthening accents died,
But his meek looks spoke what his tongue denied.
Tis past-the sickly dream of life is past,
And his freed soul tastes happiness at last!
Yet, oh! forgive, blest shade, if still we pine-
Our's was the loss-the gain alone was thine:
Forgive us if awhile we dew with tears
The blighted promise of thy early years,
And mourn-oh! idly mourn, we could not save
The flow'r that blossom'd only for the grave.
From the Latin of Ninian Paterson,、
BY THE REV, MICHAEL CALAMY,
WHY SO soon do tears arise
Infant! in thy tender eyes?
Has fate presented to thy sight
Misery coeval with the light?
Can shame attend a spotless life,
Or law perplex with madding strife?
No present care, no future fear,
No pangs of love thy bosom tear;
Unmock'd by Hope's suspended vow,
Unscar'd by Poverty's dark brow,
Perhaps (too eloquent for me)
Thy prescient eye my woes may see;
Or Fate alarms with sad presage;
Or sorrows rise with rising age;
Then tears too early! oh delay!
Reserve them for a future day:
But now my age's cordial live,
And transport to thy mother give.
See Lord Woodhouselee's Life of Lord Kames, Vol. I. Ap pendix, p. 9.
Poor tho' my lot, yet sweet my fare,
Should thy dear hands the meal prepare;
My hut would be a palace rare,
If bless'd with love and thee, Mary.
No light but from thy beamy eyes,
No warmth but what thy love supplies,
No music but thy low-breath'd sighs,
And they shall thrill my soul, Mary.
And when my daily task is done,
And home I hie at setting sun,
What prize so bright was ever won
As thy approving smile, Mary.
No worldly care shall dare intrude
To mar our peaceful solitude,
No vice shall taint with footstep rude
The dwelling grac'd by thee, Mary.
And oh! if e'er by sickness prest
For come it may, unbidden guest,
My pillow shall be thy soft breast,
My bed shall be thy arms, Mary.
Nor long my soul with sorrow riven,
For if a tear of thine be given,
Like the rich dew-drop sent from Heaven
"Twould cheer my drooping heart, Mary.
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