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Not soon provoked, she easily forgives;
And much she suffers, as she much believes.
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives;
She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives:
Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even ; ;
And opens in each heart a little heaven.

Each other gift, which GOD on man bestows,
Its proper bounds and due restriction knows;
To one fixt purpose dedicates its power,
And finishing its act, exists no more.
Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and Prophecy shall cease:
But lasting Charity's more ample sway,

Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise re--
ceive.

ELEGIES.

ON THE 25TH OF OCTOBER, 1819.

ANOTHER year! a year of solitude,
Of darkness, yet of peace, has past,-and he,
The father of his people, marks it not !
Alike to him all seasons and their change,
His eyes are rayless, and his heart is cold;
He wields a barren sceptre,—yet his brow,
Of regal diadem despoiled, still wears
The crown of glory;-his the hoary head,
Found in the way of righteousness and truth.

O thou! our father: thou, our prince and friend! How many a sight that would have grieved thine eyes,

How many a pang that would have wrung thy heart,

Has GOD withheld, and thine affiction spared!
The rose of England wither'd in its bud,

The voice of wailing was in ev'ry tent,
Yet thy day passed unruffled as before.

The

partner of thy hopes, when hope was young, She who had shared thy first, thy youthful love, And ministered to ev'ry sorrow;-she

F4

ELEGIES.

ON THE 25TH OF OCTOBER, 1819.

ANOTHER year! a year of solitude,
Of darkness, yet of peace, has past,-and he,
The father of his people, marks it not!
Alike to him all seasons and their change,
His eyes are rayless, and his heart is cold;
He wields a barren sceptre,-yet his brow,
Of regal diadem despoiled, still wears
The crown of glory;-his the hoary head,
Found in the way of righteousness and truth.

O thou! our father: thou, our prince and friend! How many a sight that would have grieved thine

eyes,

How many a pang that would have wrung thy heart,

Has GOD withheld, and thine affliction spared!
The rose of England wither'd in its bud,
The voice of wailing was in ev'ry tent,
Yet thy day passed unruffled as before.
The partner of thy hopes, when hope was young,
She who had shared thy first, thy youthful love,
And ministered to ev'ry sorrow ;-she

Fell by long sickness, and a lingering death;!
And thou hadst neither tear nor sigh to give.

Yet thou art not forgotten!-Dear thou wast
In happier moments; and oh! dearer far
Now that the hand of GOD has touched thee; still?
Hallow'd by all the memory of the past
Shall be this day. Sacred by lengthened years,
And venerable by sufferings, mayst thou reach,
In Heaven's appointed time, thy last abode,
The paradise of GOD, where ev'ry, tear
Is wiped from ev'ry eye!

THE FOLLOWING LINES

Are said to have been written by an amiable Princess, whose sufferings and exemplary patience · awakened universal sympathy and admiration.

2

UNTHINKING, idle, wild, and young,

I laughed, and talked, and danced, and sung;.
And proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dreamed not of sorrow, care, or pain:
Concluding, in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.

But when the days of trial came,
When sickness shook this trembling frame,,
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could dance and sing no more,
It then occurred, how sad 'twould be
Were this world only made for me!

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ON THE DEATH OF THE HON. MR. DAWSON.

O YE! who, borne on Fancy's golden wing,
Sport in the sunshine of life's cloudless sky;
Who, lost amid the luxury of Spring,

Dream of no threat'ning storm, no danger nigh:

A little while your fond pursuits forbear!
One hour, at least, to serious thought is due!
A friend demands the tribute of a tear;

A friend, who once had hopes, as bright as you!!

Whene'er he mixt among the youthful train,

Say, did not pleasure sparkle in his eye?
But ah! how soon the pleasure turned to pain!
He died;-reflect ! repent!-Ye soon may

die!..

While, as on his, with softest zephyrs fann'd,

Youth's freshest blossoms on your boughs appear, Like some untimely frost, Death's chilling hand May nip the promise of the opening year!

How oft you joined him at th' accustomed hour,

When, led by Learning's hand, yon pile he sought;: How oft, while ev'ning reigned, in yonder bower, Warm glowed his bosom with poetic thought !

For well the golden lyre his fingers strung;

To him the Muse her richest treasures gave; But Death, regardless of the strains he sung, Frowned on the bard, and snatched him to the grave.

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