Bound to yon dusky mart,* with pennants gay,
The tall bark, on the winding water's line,
Between the riven cliffs plies her hard way,
And peering on the sight the white sails shine.

Alas! for those by drooping sickness worn,
Who now come forth to meet the cheering ray;
And feel the fragrance of the tepid morn

Round their torn breast and throbbing temples play!

Perhaps they muse with a desponding sigh

On the cold vault that shall their bones inurn; Whilst every breeze seems, as it whispers by, To breathe of comfort never to return.

Yet oft, as sadly thronging dreams arise,
Awhile forgetful of their pain they gaze,
A transient lustre lights their faded eyes,
And o'er their cheek the tender lectick strays.

The purple morn that paints with sidelong gleam The cliff's tall crest, the waving woods that ring With charm of birds rejoicing in the beam,

Touch soft the wakeful nerve's according string.

* Bristol.

Then at sad Meditation's silent hour

A thousand wishes steal upon the heart;

And, whilst they meekly bend to Heav'n's high pow'r, Ah! think 'tis hard, 'tis surely hard to part—

To part from every hope that brought delight

From those that lov'd them, those they lov'd so much! Then Fancy swells the picture on the sight,

And softens every scene at every touch.

Sweet as the mellow'd woods beneath the moon,
Remembrance lends her soft-uniting shades;
Some natural tears she drops, but wipes them soon:-
The world retires, and its dim prospect fades!

Airs of delight, that sooth the aching sense;
Waters of health, that through yon caverns glide;
O kindly yet your healing powers dispense,
And bring back feeble life's exhausted tide!

Perhaps to these grey rocks and mazy springs
Some heart may come, warm'd with the purest fire;
For whom bright Fancy plumes her radiant wings,

And warbling Muses wake the lonely lyre.

Some orphan Maid, deceiv'd in early youth,
Pale o'er yon spring may hang in mute distress;
Who dreamt of faith, of happiness, and truth,

Of love-that Virtue would protect and bless.

Some musing Youth in silence there may bend,
Untimely stricken by sharp sorrow's dart;
For friendship form'd, yet left without a friend,
And bearing still the arrow at his heart.

Such was lamented RUSSELL'S hapless doom,
The gay companion of my stripling prime;
Ev'n so he sunk unwept into the tomb,

And o'er his head clos'd the dark gulph of time.

Hither he came,* a wan and weary guest,

A softening balm for many a wound to crave; And woo'd the sunshine to his aching breast, Which now seems smiling on his verdant grave!

The Rev. Thomas Russell, Fellow of New College, Oxford, author of some ingenious Poems, died at the Hotwells 1788, in the twenty-sixth year of his age.

He heard the whis'pring winds that now I hear,
As, boding much, along these hills he pass'd;
Yet ah! how mournful did they meet his ear
On that sad morn he heard them for the last!

So sinks the scene, like a departed dream,

Since late we sojourn'd blythe in WYKEHAM's bow'rs,* Or heard the merry bells by Isis' stream,

And thought our way was strew'd with fairy flow'rs!

Of those with whom we play'd upon the lawn
Of early life, in the fresh morning play'd;
Alas! how many, since that vernal dawn,
Like thee, poor RUSSELL, in the ground are laid.

Joyous awhile they wander'd hand in hand,
By friendship led along the spring-tide plain !
How oft did Fancy wake her transports bland,
And on the lids the glist'ning tear detain!

I

yet survive, now musing other song,

Than that which early pleas'd my vacant years; Thinking how days and hours have pass'd along, Mark'd by much pleasure some, and some by tears!

Winchester College.

Thankful, that to these verdant scenes I owe

That he* whom late I saw all drooping pale, Rais'd from the couch of sickness and of woe,

Now lives with me their mantling views to hail.

Thankful, that still the landscape beaming bright,
Of pendant mountain, or of woodland grey,
Can wake the wonted sense of pure delight,
And charm awhile my solitary way.

Enough:-Through the high heav'n the proud sun rides,
My wand'ring steps their silent path pursue
Back to the crowded world where fortune guides:
CLIFTON, to thy white rocks and woods adieu!

* Mr. Howley.