Thine Wisdom too; and rapt Devotion thine,
List'ning the sphery chime with pauseful ear;
Sage Meditation still,

And eagle-pinion'd Thought.

While those too, brighter yet, that troop behind,Content, blithe child of Labour well repaid, (Who laughing leads along

Brown Harvest's buxom form,

The poppy nodding mid her sheafy crest,)

And Vintage flush'd with his own ruddy grape,― Complete thy festal train,

Superior to assault;

Well, loveliest Autumn, mayst thou mock the rage Of Winter, surly dotard, following fierce,

With frozen breath malign

To blight thy later blooms;

Nor need'st thou yet the full voluptuous glare
Of Summer envy, more divinely drest

By Nature's liberal hand

In plenitude and peace.

GENIUS EXCUSED.

WOUNDED by severest scorn,
His fir'd soul flashing o'er his face,
Mid the cheerless waste forlorn,
Mark yon stripling's wayward pace:
Often though he heaves a sigh,
Inspiration's in his eye..

Must the meanest heir of gold
Riot in sublime excess ;
And that bosom, never cold,
No unenvied transport bless;
He at best, degraded boy,
Doom'd to steal a sickly joy?

Could he sing the feats of wine,
And never taste the purple stream?
Could he paint the bliss divine,
Nor beauty gild his glowing dream?
Restriction hence! no pedant art
Can match the science of the heart.

When these sapient saws expire,
And slumber with old sages past;
When these frigid rules retire,

Like autumn's leaf before the blast ;
When their memory is flown,

Taste shall claim him for her own.

"Often," will tradition say,
"Near yon spot of sacred green,
When Twilight way'd her banner grey;
Did we note his museful mien ;
Now conversing with the air,
Sunk anon in dumb despair.

"Strew your vernal tribute round;
Round your fading flowrets strew;
Pity, consecrate the ground
Where sleeps a breast to pity true:
So shall Genius' humble grave
Boast the honours once he gave."

TWO ELEGIAC ODES,

TO THE MEMORY OF

SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

FIRST ODE.

WHERE is the British Genius fled ?
Why starts not the poetic tear

That erst embalm'd the mighty dead,
Soft streaming o'er the warrior's bier ?
Her languid lid too long is dry;
Fell grief has froze her beamless eye;

Or sure ere this that lucid drop should flow
To wail her favour'd son, and swell the general woe.

Waked from her melancholy trance,

'Tis she! the fair aerial form

I see with solemn step advance,

Bright as the bow that girds the storm:

Yet sorrow dims the sickly grace

Faint-smiling on her faded face;

While, as she braids the ever-during wreath, Pauseful she heaves a sigh o'er conquest dash'd with death:

The song begin! my bosom glows:
Her dawning influence I feel:

The sweet elixir she bestows,

A nation's recent wound shall heal.
For, oh! methinks each gen'rous heart
Throbb'd with participated smart,

When Vengeance taught the murd❜rous ball to fly, And Vict'ry dubious mark'd the veteran's bleeding thigh.

Lo! on yon column's peak sublime
She sits, and folds her purple wing;
While, nook'd beneath, malignant Time
Aloof his scythe is forc'd to fling:

Now, half a native of the skics,
Where her undaunted hero dies,

Whilere luxurious Antony repos'd,

And in a harlot's arms long scenes of glory clos'd.

* Called by some historians the column of Severus.