But can my soul the scene enjoy,
That rends another's breast with pain?
O, hapless he, who near the main
Now sees its billowy rage destroy!
Beholds the found'ring bark descend,
Nor knows but that its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend,

ELEGY

On the Death of an Indiot Girl.

ANONYMOUS.

WHO, helpless, hopeless being, who
Shall strew a flower upon thy grave;
Or who, from mute Oblivion's power,
Thy disregarded name shall save?

Honour, and wealth, and learning's store,
The votive urn remembers long;

And e'en the annals of the poor

Live in the bard's immortal song.

But a blank stone best stories thee,

Whom wealth, nor sense, nor fame could find;

Poorer than aught beside, we see

A human form without a mind.

P

ELEGY.

A casket gemless! yet for thee
Pity shall grave a simple tale;
And reason shall a moral see,
And fancy paint for our avail.

Yes, it shall paint thy hapless form,
Clad decent in its russet weed;
Happy in aimless wand'rings long,
And pleas'd thy father's flock to feed.

Though language was forbid to trace
The unform'd chaos of thy mind;
And thy rude sound no ear could guess,
But through parental instinct kind.

Yet, unto every human form

Clings imitation, mystic pow'r!
And thou wert fond, and proud to own
The school-time's regulated hour.

And o'er the mutilated page,

Mutter the mimic lesson's tone; And e'er the schoolboy's task was said, Bring ever and anon thine own.

Thou many a truant boy wouldst seek,

And drag reluctant to his place;

And oft the master's solemn rule,

Wouldst mock with grave and apt grimace.

And every guileless heart would love,
A nature so estranged from wrong;
And every infant would protect

Thee from the trav'ller's passing tongue.

Thy primal joy was still to be

Where holy congregations bow;

Wrapp'd in wild transport when they sung, And when they pray'd would bend thee low.

O Nature! wheresoe'er thou art,

Some latent worship still is there; Blush, ye whose form, without a heart, The Idiot's plea can never share.

Poor guiltless thing! thee, eighteen years,
Parental cares had rear'd alone;

Then, lest thou e'er shouldst want their care,
Heav'n took thee spotless to its own.

For many a watching eye of love

Thy sickness and thy death did cheer; Though reason weeps not, she allows The instinct of a parent's tear.

Poor guileless child! forgot by man,
This mound is all now left of thee

To merely mortal man it may,

But Faith another sight can see.

For what a burst of mind shall be,
When disencumber'd from this clod,
Thou, who on earth couldst nothing know,
Shall rise to comprehend thy God.

Oh! could thy spirit teach us now,
Full many a truth the gay might learn ;
The value of a blameless life

Full many a sinner might discern.

Yes, they might learn who waste their time,
What it must be to know no sin;

They who pollute the soul's sweet prime,
What to be spotless, pure within.

Whoe'er thou art, go seek her grave,
Nor idly sport in folly's ray;
And as the gale the grass shall wave,

List to a voice that seems to say:

""Tis not the measure of thy pow'rs,
"To which the eternal meed is given;

" "Tis wasted or improved hours,
"That forfeit or secure thy heaven."

THE END.

Printed by Harvey, Darton, and Co.
Gracechurch-street, London.