'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,

Promiscuously recline;
Where wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,

May every bliss be thine.
And, ah! bless'd spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace, be thine above !
Song.-By A WOMAN.-

Lovely, lasting peace below,
Comforter of every woe,
Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky
Lovely, lasting peace appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bless'd,
And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN speaker.
Our vows are heard ! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies :
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
Want pass'd for merit at her door,

Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,

And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound.
There faith shall come, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ;
And calm religion shall repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.


Truth, fortitude, and friendship shall agree,
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

Let us, let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.

End of the first part.




MAN speaker.
Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream

Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,

He forms a scene beyond Elysium bless'd-
Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place,

While sweetly blending still are seen The wavy lawn, the sloping greenWhile novelty, with cautious cunning, Through every maze of fancy running,

From China borrows aid to deck the scene There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,

Forlorn a rural band complain'd,
All whom Augusta's bounty fed,

All whom her clemency sustain'd;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in home-spun gray,
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd:
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep;

And, as they view

The towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress-now no more-and weep.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes-
Let all your echoes now deplore
That she who form’d your beauties is no more!

MAN speaker. First of the train the patient rustic came,

Whose callous hand had form’d the scene, Bending at once with sorrow and with age,

With many a tear and many a sigh between ; “And where,” he cried, “ shall now my babes have bread,

Or how shall age support its feeble fire ?
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,

Nor can my strength perform what they require;
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare
A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble mistress thought not so:

Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, used to flow;

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew.”

WOMAN speaker.
In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen-
Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied,
“And ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,

“ What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair,

To ask for charity
Too late in life for me to ask,

And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times

To succour, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,

Were to my mistress known;
She still relieved, nor sought my praise,

Contented with her own.
But every day her name I'll bless-

My morning prayer, my evening song;
I'll praise her while my life shall last,

A life that cannot last me long."

Song.-By A WOMAN.
Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless-

My morning and my evening song;
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.

MAN speaker.
The hardy veteran after struck the sight,

Scarr’d, mangled, maim'd in every part; Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,

In nought entire except his heart. Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd, At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast:

"Wild is the whirlwind rolling

O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling

Along the billow'd main;
But every danger felt before
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar-
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,

Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh! let me fly a land that spurns the brave--
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my

limbs were lost.”
Song.--By a MAN.- Basso.-Spiritoso.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Crécy's laurell'd field,

To do thy memory right;
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN speaker.
In innocence and youth complaining,

Next appear'd a lovely maid-
Affliction o'er each feature reigning,

Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,

Every glance that warms the soul, In sweet succession charm'd the senses,

While pity harmonized the whole.

“The garland of beauty”—'tis thus she would say—

“No more shall my crook or my temples adorn, I'll not wear a garland-Augusta's away,

I'll not wear a garland until she return; But alas ! that return I never shall see,

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, There promised a lover to come -but, О me!

'Twas death—'twas the death of my mistress that came. But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

Song.-By A WOMAN.—Pastorale. With garlands of beauty the queen of the May

No more will her crook or her temples adorn; For who'd wear a garland when she is away,

When she is removed, and shall never return ? On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,

We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom; And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

Chorus.-Altro modo,
On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,

We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.

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