And the relenting Pagan turn aside

To think-on yonder shore the Christian died!

But thou, O Briton, doom'd perhaps to roam An exile many a year and far from home,

If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads

To the wild Nieper's banks, and whisp❜ring reeds,
O'er HOWARD's Grave thou shalt impassion❜d bend,
As if to hold sad converse with a friend.
Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene,

Where'er thy weary pilgrimage has been,

There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heart Some vain regrets that oft unbidden start,

Think upon him to every

lot resign'd,

Who wept, who toil'd, who perish'd for mankind.

For me, who musing, HOWARD, on thy fate,
These pensive strains at evening meditate,
I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taught
To mend my heart, or animate my thought.

I thank thee, HoWARD, for that awful view
Of life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true.
Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloom

Of this poor offering dies upon thy tomb:

Beyond the transient sound of earthly praise
Thy virtues live, perhaps, in seraph's lays!
I, borne in thought, to the wild Nieper's wave,
Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave.

ON

SHAKESPEARE.

Sovereign Master, who with lonely state
Dost rule as in some isle's inchanted land,
On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait,
Whilst scenes of faerie bloom at thy command!

On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie,

And list, 'till earth dissolv'd to thy sweet minstrelsy! .

Call'd by thy magick from the hoary deep,
Aërial forms should in bright troops ascend,

And then a wond'rous mask before me sweep;

Whilst sounds, that the earth own'd not, seem to blend

Their stealing melodies, that when the strain

Ceas'd, I should weep, and would so dream again!

The song is ceas'd. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou, Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night?

Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow;

So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white; So wildly thou dost cry," Blow, bitter wind, "Ye elements, I call not rov unkind.'

Beneath the shade of nodding branches grey,
'Mid rude romantick woods, and glens forlorn,
The merry hunters wear the hours away;

Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn!
Joyous to all, but him,† who with sad look
Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook.

But mark the merry elves of fairy land!‡
To the high moon's gleamy glance,
They with shadowy morrice dance;
Soft musick dies along the desert sand;
Soon at peep of cold-ey'd day,
Soon the numerous lights decay;
Merrily, now merrily,

After the dewy moon they fly.

*Lear.

† Jaques: As You Like It.

‡ Midsummer Night's Dream.