In orient climes with brighter radiance shine,
And sow th' ethereal plains with flame divine.
So, damp'd by Peace's transient smile,
If Britain's glory seem to fade awhile,
Yet, when occasion's kindling rays
Relumine valour's gen'rous blaze,
Higher the radiant flames aspire,

And shine with clearer light, and glow with fiercer fire.

From Europe's shores th' insidious train,
Eluding Britain's watchful eye,

Rapid across th' Atlantic fly

To Isles that stud the western main;

There proud their conqu'ring banners seem to rise,
And fann'd by shadowy triumphs, flout the skies:
But, lo! th' avenging Pow'r appears,

His victor-flag immortal Nelson rears;
Swift as the raven's ominous race,

Fly the strong eagle o'er th' ethereal space,

The Gallic barks the billowy deep divide,

Their conquests lost in air, o'erwhelm'd in shame their pride.

The hour of vengeance comes-by Gades' tow'rs,
By high Trafalgar's ever-trophied shore,

The godlike warrior on the adverse Pow'rs
Leads his resistless fleet with daring prore.

Terrific as th' electric bolt that flies

With fatal shock athwart the thund'ring skies,
By the mysterious will of Heaven

On man's presuming offspring driven,

Full on the scatter'd foe he hurls his fires,

Performs the dread behest, and in the flash expires

But not his fame-While chiefs who bleed
For sacred duty's holy meed,

With glory's amaranthine wreath,
By weeping Victory crown'd in death,
In History's awful page shall stand
Foremost amid th' heroic band;
Nelson! so long thy hallow'd name
Thy country's gratitude shall claim;
And while a people's Paans raise
To thee the choral hymn of praise,
And while a patriot Monarch's tear
Bedews and sanctifies thy bier,
Each youth of martial hopes shall feel
True valour's animating zeal;

With emulative wish thy trophies see,

And heroes, yet unborn, shall Britain owe to thee.

ODE FOR THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY.

By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq. POET LAUREAT.

L

ONG did chill Winter's dreary reign Usurp the promis'd hours of Spring; Long Eurus o'er the russet plain

Malignant wav'd his noisome wing.
O'er April's variegated day

The frolic zephyrs fear'd to play;
Th' alternate change of suns and showers
Call'd not to life her silken flowers;
But arm'd with whirlwind, frost, and hail;
Winter's ungenial blasts prevail,
And check her vernal powers.

But o'er the renovated plain
See Maia lead her smiling train
Of halcyon hours along;
While burst from every echoing grove
Loud strains of harmony and love,
Preluding to the choral song,
Which opening June shall votive pour

To hail with proud acclaim our Monarch's natal hour.

Still must that day, to Britain dear,
To Britons joy impart ;
Cloudy or bright, that day shall weat
The sunshine of the heart.

And as before the fervid ray

That genial glows in summer skies,
Each cloud that veil'd the beam of day
Far from the azure welkin flies:
So may each cheerless mist that seems
Awhile to cloud our prospects fair,
Dispell'd by hope's enlivening beams,

Our brightening ether fly, and melt away in air.
Awhile though Fortune adverse frown-
By timid friends their cause betray'd,
With bosom firm and undismay'd,

On force depending all their own,
A living rampire round their parent Lord,
The British warriors grasp th' avenging sword;

While youths of royal hope demand the fight,

To assert a Monarch and a Father's right.

United in one patriot band,

From Albion's, Erin's, Caledonia's land,
Elate in arms indignant shine

The kindred heroes of the Briton line,

To whelm invasion 'neath our circling flood,

Or stain our verdant fields with Gallia's hostile blood.

CORYDON

ADDRESS of MARY QUEEN of SCOTLAND, on the ANNUNCIATION of her fatal SENTENCE.

[Translated by Lord HOLLAND, from LOPE DE VEGA'S POEM on this unfortunate Princess.]

TH

HANKS for your news, illustrious lords, she cried;
greet the doom that must my griefs decide:
Sad though it be, though sense must shrink from pain,
Yet the immortal soul the trial shall sustain.

But had the fatal sentence reach'd my cars

In France, in Scotland, with my husband crown'd,
Not age itself could have allayed my fears,

And my poor heart had shudder'd at the sound.
But now immur'd for twenty tedious years,

Where nought my listening cares can catch around
But fearful noise of danger and alarms,

The frequent threat of death, and constant din of arms,

Ah! what have I in dying to bemoan?

What punishment in death can they devise
For her who living only lives to groan,

And see continual death before her eyes?
Comfort's in death, where 't is in life unknown;

Who death expects feels more than he who dies :-
Though too much valour may our fortune try,

To live in fear of death is many times to die.

Where have I e'er repos'd in silent night,

But death's stern image stalk'd around my bed?
What morning e'er arose on me with light,
But on my health some sad disaster bred?

Did Fortune ever aid my war or flight,
Or grant a refuge for my hapless head?

Still at my life some fearful phantom aim'd,

My draughts with poison drugg'd, my towers with treachery

flamed.

And now with fatal certainty I know

Is come the hour that my sad being ends,

Where life must perish with a single blow;

Then mark her death whom steadfast faith attends !

My cheeks unchang'd my inward calm shall show,
While free from foes, serene, my generous friends,

I meet my death-or rather I should say,
Meet my eternal life, my everlasting day.

The

The LUCKY ESCAPE.

[By the Same, translated from the ARCADIA of the Same]

I

N the green season of my flowering years,
I liv'd, O Love! a captive in thy chains;
Sang of delusive hopes and idle fears,
And wept thy follies in my wisest strains :
Sad sport of time when under thy controul,
So wild was grown my wit, so blind my soul.

But from the yoke which once my courage tam'd
I, undeceived, at length have slipp'd my head,
And in that sun whose rays my soul enflam'd,
What scraps I rescued at my ease I spread.
So shall I altars to Indifference raise,

And chaunt without alarm returning freedom's praise.

So on their chains the ransom'd captives dwell;
So carols one who cured relates his wound;

So slaves of masters, troops of battle tell,
As I my cheerful liberty resound.

Freed, sea and burning fire, from thy controul,
Prison, wound, war, and tyrant of my soul.

Remain then, faithless friend, thy arts to try
On such as court alternate joy and pain;
For me, I dare her very eyes defy,

I scorn the amorous snare, the pleasing chain,
That held enthrall'd my cheated heart so long,
And charm'd my erring soul unconscious of its wrong.

CORYDON. (A MONODY:)

[From Mr. RAYMOND'S LIFE of THOMAS DERMODY.]

In this Monody the author, a youth of ten years of age, bewails the death of his brother; who died of the small-pox, an. 1785, atatis 7.)

WH

my

head?

THAT dire misfortune hovers o'er
Why hangs the salt dew on my aching eye?
Why doth my bosom pant, so sad, so sore,
That was full blithe before?

Bitter occasion prompts th' untimely sigh;
Why am I punish'd thus, ye angels! why?
A shepherd swain like me, of harmless guise,
Whose sole amusement was to feed his kine,
And tune his oaten pipe the livelong day,

Could

Could he in aught offend th'avenging skies,
Or wake the red-wag'd thunderbolt divine?
Ah! no of simple structure was his lay;
Yet unprofan'd with trick of city art,

Pure from the head, and glowing from the heart.-
Thou dear memorial of a brother's love,

Sweet Aute, once warbled to the list'ning grove,

And master'd by his skilful hand,

How shall I now command

The hidden charms that lurk within thy frame,
Or tell his gentle fame?

Yet will I hail, unmeet, his star-crown'd shade;
And beck his rural friends, a tuneful throng,
To mend the uncouth lay, and join the rising song.
Ah! I remember well yon oaken arbour gay.
Where frequent at the purple dawn of morn,
Or 'neath the beetling brow of twilight grey,
We sate, like roses twain upon one thorn,
Telling romantic tales, of descant quaint,
Tinted in various hues with fancy's paint:
And I would hearken, greedy of his sound,
Lapt in the bosom of soft ecstacy,
Till, lifting mildly high

Her modest frontlet from the clouds around,
Silence beheld us bruise the closing flow'rs,
Meanwhile she shed her pure ambrosial show'rs.

O Shannon! thy embroider'd banks can tell
How oft we stray'd beside thy amber wave,
With osier rods arching thy wizard stream,
Or weaving garlands for thy liquid brow.

grave;

Ah me! my dearest partner seeks the
The ruthless grave, extinguisher of joy.
Fond Corydon, scarce ripen'd into boy,
Where shall I ever find thy pleasing peer?

My task is now (ungrateful task, I ween!)
To cull the choisest offspring of the year,
With myrtles mix'd, and laurels varnish'd bright ;.
And, scatt'ring o'er thy hillock green

The poor meed, greet the gloom of night.

Ye healing Pow'rs, that range the velvet mead,
Exhaling the fresh breeze from Zephyr's bow'r,
Oh! where, in that unhappy hour,

Where did you fly from his neglected head?

O Health, thou memtain maid of sprightliest check,
Ah! why not cool his forchid meek?

Why not in nis blest cause thy pow'r display,
And chase the fell disorder far away?

For