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Now struggling in the roaring main-
Now dead, and sunk beneath the surge.
Yet let not visions thus alarm

Thy soft and feeling heart with fear;

For thee, Heaven shields my head from harm, To save such innocence a tear.

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ADAPTED TO A FAVOURITE MILITARY AIR.

HARK, hark! the drums afar,

And the loud clarion's angry sound, Announce th' approaching war;

The steeds in thunder bound: Unfurl'd the banners glare on high; The roar of cannon rends the sky, And rocks the ground.

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Fires flash, smoke whirls, and bullets fly,

"To kill or wound."

And what, though battle's doom

Suppress the youthful warrior's breath!

Could Sloth avoid the tomb !

Can Flight escape from Death!

What though, where we may sink in sleep, O'er the green turf no marble weep,

No scutcheon wave!

We ask not such reward:

Fair Fame and smiling Virtue guard

The hero's grave.

ON THE DEATH OF

MR. JAMES VALENTINE.*

YE clouds that in tempestuous grandeur driven,
Involve in twilight gloom the noon-day heaven;
Ye torrents, down these craggy cliffs that roar;
Ye murmurs hoarse, that sweep the pebbly shore ;
Ye winds that whistle, and ye waves that roll;
Well do ye suit the sadness of my soul.

Yes, ye rude rocks, the lingering sounds return,
Ye woods, wave high your hoary heads, and mourn,
And howl, ye melancholy gales, along,

Wafting the wild notes of funereal song.
Yet, why for him attune funereal lays,

Him deaf to mortal plaint, and mortal praise;

*The Author's cousin german and intimate friend; a person of great modesty and worth; who, after serving five or six years as a midshipman ìn the British navy, and signalizing his valour in many battles, lost his life in a storm in 1785, in the twentythird year of his age. To account for one passage in the poem, it is necessary to add, that his body was thrown on the land, and there buried.

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T'um tibi mens fallax juvenem depin
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SONG. BY

SET BY MR.JACKSON.

FAR from the arms of her I love,
By fate too cruel doom'd to sigh,
To desert climes forlorn I rove:
How lighter far the task, to die!
When from my soul's soft treasure torn,
Will Delia think on Colin's name?
In fancy hear the exile mourn,

In fancy see his sorrows stream?

Say, will not fear a pang inspire,
When winds the mountain bow form,
When lightnings flash their forry fre,
And awful thunder swells the storm?
A dread will surely then preTai,
Thy soul a kind compassioz move,
When memory tells the tender tale
Of all my wo and iapien love.

at the swain

est verge,

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