Here together we have hop'd,
While our future prospect op'd,
Mutual aid might, in life's dell,
Every gloomy ftorm dispel,
Yet I now, in lonely state,
Mournful by our parting fate,
On this foothing rock reclin'd,
Strive to cheat my widow'd mind,

Faintly beams the twilight ray,
Bidding hence the languifh'd day.
Sober'd hills in drefs obfcure
Sit around, in plight demure.
Paffing by with sprightly ease,
Now the kindly-temper'd breeze
Wings the plaintive founds of night.
Mingled in their dizzy flight,
Comes the cricket's thrilling tone
With the owl's pedantic moan,
Choruffing the wakeful lay
Of the brook, in merry play.

Fancy ftill presents around
Scenes remote, where joys abound
But no fcene devoid of thee,
Brightens with harmonious glee.
None, but thy remembered voice,
Bids the mingled founds rejoice.
Naught in all the fpacious maze,
But thy image holds my gaze.

TO A

A YOUNG DIVINE,

ON HIS ORDINATION DAY.

SOME angel guard my wandering muse,

Nor let her rove in vain ;

My liftening ftrings can ne'er refufe
To join a hallow'd strain.

Each tender nerve, that ftrings the heart, Shall wake to life and sense,

While thou, Philander, themes impart,

That pureft charms difpenfe.

When e're thy facred task I view,

Commiffion'd from the skies,
Old error bids the world adieu
And joyful funs arise.

Salvation hails the ufhering day,
While truths inspire your tongue;
And finners hear their guilt away,
And rapture wakes to fong.

Devotion spreads her flaming wings,
And with an upward eye
Through boundless lengths of ether fprings
And claims her native sky.

Religion owns thy guardian hand,

And flopes a downward flight.
Peace and good will on her attend,
And God and men unite.

While basking in the beams of grace
The dreary wilds fhall bloom;

And every folitary place

A laughing vale become.

The thirsty meads fhall new fupplies
From warbling fountains drain,
While on their banks a Sharon lies,
A Carmel on each plain.

Thus fhall immortal beauties spring,
While thou their charms improve;

Till angels bend the shining wing
To waft you fafe above.

And when in robes of streaming light,

Thou tread'ft the starry zone,

Symphonious choirs fhall fhout thy flight Around the blazing throne.

Nor fhall a fancied God infpire,

As poets, fabling, tell.

Gabriel for thee fhall ftring the lyre,

And God himself reveal.

And when you touch each warbling fring,
On yon celestial ground,

Echo through unknown Worlds shall ring,
And lift'ning space refound.

CLEORA.

GILIMER

Selected Poetry.

GILIMER,

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

IFR was the last of the Vandal kings of Africa, conquered by BELISARIUS; he retired to the heights of Pappua, when his army was entirely beaten-His aufwer to the meffage fent to him there by Belifarius, is well known. He defired the conqueror to fend him a loaf of bread, a sponge, and a lute. This request was thus explained; that the king had not tafted any baked bread, fince his arrival on that mountain, and that he earnestly longed to eat a morfel of it, before he died; the fponge he wanted to allay a tumour, that was fallen upon one of his eyes; and the lute, on which he had learned to play, was to assist him in fetting some elegiac verses, which he had composed on the subject of his misfortunes.

HENCE, foldier, to thy plumed chief;

Tell him, that Afric's king,

Broken by years, and bow'd with grief,
Afks but a lute, that he may fing

His forrows to the moon; or (if he weep)
A fponge, which he in tears may steep;
And let his pity fpare a little bread!

Such, Gilmer, was thy laft prayer
To him, who o'er thy realm his gay hoft led,

When thou forlorn, and frozen with despair,

Didst fit on Pappua's heights alone,

Mourning thy fortune loft, thy crown, thy kingdom gone.

When twas still night, and on the mountain væst
The moon her tranquil glimmer cast,

From tent to tent, remotely fpread around,
He heard the murm'ring army's hoftile found,
And fwell'd from his fad lute a folemn tone,
Whilft the lone vallies echo'd-" All is gone!"

The fun from darkness rose,
Illumining the landscape wide,

The tents, the far-off ships, and the pale morning tide. Now the prophetic fong indignant flows.

Thine, Roman, is the victory

Roman, the wide world is thine-
In every clime the eagles fly,

And the gay fquadron's length'ning line,
That flashes far and near,

It flouting banners, as in fcorn, difplays,
Trump answers trump, to war-horfe war-horse neighs.

I fink forfaken here

This rugged rock my empire, and this feat
Of folitude, my glory's last retreat!

Yet boast not thou,

Soldier, the laurels on thy victor brow,

They fhall wither, and thy fate,

Leave thee, like me, defpairing, defolate!

With haggard beard, and bleeding eyes,
The conqueror of Afric lies*—

Where now his glory's crested helm ?

Where now his marshall'd legions thronging bright, His fteeds, his trumpets, clanging to the fight, That spread difmay through Perfia's bleeding realm ?

Alluding to the supposed miferable state of Belifarius in his old age.

Me, of every hope bereft ;

Me, to scorn and ruin left?

So may despair thy last lone hours attend !—
That thou too, in thy turn, may'st know,
How doubly fharp the woe-

When from fortune's fummit hurl'd,

We gaze around on all the world,
And find in all the world No FRIEND!

VERSES*

Written, in confequence of the author's being reproached for not weeping over the dead body of a female friend.

BY ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq.

COLD drops the tear which blazons common woe :

What callous rock retains its chrystal rill?

Ne'er will the soften'd mould its liquid fhow :
Deep fink the waters that are smooth and still !

Ah! when fublimely agoniz'd I ftood,

And Memory gave her beauteous frame a figh: While Feeling triumph'd in my heart's warm flood; Grief drank the offering ere it reach'd the eye!

This little instance of refined fentiment has been translated into German, by Klopstock; into Italian, by Count Savelli of Corfica, and int● French, by Count Joseph Augustus De Maccarthy.