POETRY.

AN ODE.

BY MIRZA KAZIM ULEE JUWAN.

Paraphrased by DR. JOHN GILCHRIST.

FAIR youth is the season which mortals should prize,

As the spring of both body and mind;
Thro' Summer and Autumn, see! life swiftly flies,
With old age, its cold Winter behind.

2.

Awake! now sweet Hebe benignantly cheers,
Like Aurora, the morn with her rays,

Oh, hear my young friends!-ere the dark night appears,
For improvement, these-these are the days.

- 3..

Exert every nerve while the soul is in tune,
The high summits of learning to gain,

Should Time's hoary locks bring Death's warning at noon,
Then, indeed, you may labour in vain.

4.

If reason, or genius, your bosom yet fires,
With advantage contemplate this truth!
As day-light itself before darkness retires,
Clouds may lower on the sunshine of youth.

5.

Now quickly employ every moment you can,
Adolescence with honour to crown;
For science should ever distinguish the man,
Who aspires, or to rank, or renown.

1

6.

In arts and accomplishments, emulate all,
Persevere to Fame's temple, in view;
While Envy and Ignorance shamefully fall,
Merit's bays, there, are waving for you.

7.

The dictates of Malice, let cowards obey,
Arm'd with pencil, stiletto, or pen;
Leave Slander's base weapons, which Innocence slay,
To assasins, the basest of men,

8.

True worth is a lamp with celestial flame,
That will shine when this Globe shall decay.
Tho' monuments lurk in the dust-a good name
Is the dawn of Eternity's day.

9.

By just and magnanimous actions the brave,
Gather laurels unfading, on high;

From earth far remov'd, and the sting of the grave,
In heaven-where they never can die.

10.

See pleasure and fortune, both fade like the rose,
When its dew-drops of morn disappear!

But Glory's immortal fresh blossoms disclose,
Like the myrtle, Spring's charms thro' the year.

11.

Indulge not too freely in pride, nor in wine,
Those false lights in the visible gloom!
Which Coxcombs and Profligates borrow to shine,
As the glow-worms in Vice's dark tomb.

12.

While juvenile minds, which no passion inspires,
That an Angel might blush to descry,
Reflect the pure image that Virtue admires,
In the tear of mild Sympathy's eye.

On the DEATH of a YOUNG SOLDIER.

By WILLIAM PRESTON, on the lamented and untimely Death of his SON, WILLIAM PRESTON the Younger, who was killed at the BATTLE of DELHI, in the Twenty-first Year of his Age.

WITH every tide, with every wind,
I watch'd the tardy sail from Ind!
While, still reviving, still delay'd,
Hope on the sicken'd spirit prey'd.
I caught, with fond impatience wild,
At every rumour of my child!-
At length it comes-the tardy sail
With news of carnage loads the gale.-
Oh stroke, that I must long deplore!-
My son, my William is no more.-
Among the heroic slain he lies--
And who has heard his parting sighs?-
As sinking on the plain, he bled,
What hand sustain'd his drooping head?-
What pious accents cheer'd his death?-
What friend receiv'd his parting breath?

In pomp decay'd, where Delhi's wall
Appears to mourn an empire's fall,
Where palaces, their splendour gone,
Are tottering o'er th' imperial throne,
And monuments of Timur's race
Are mould'ring thro' the dreary spacę,
So late the gallant and the brave,
Now wretched earth denied a grave!-
Where Jumna, spreading o'er the plain,
Beholds his current choak'd with slain.
The fatal field with gore is red.-
What tongue laments the valiant dead?—
What eyelids pour the pitying tear ?----
What hands the fun'ral pile uprear?----
The vulture's scream and eagle's cries-
Are these, my Son, thy obsequies ?—

Oh!

Oh! far remote, unheard, and low,
From drooping eyes the sorrows flow-
While rapine wild and faithless deed
Ordain the victim host to bleed.
The gentle Sister-constant Wife,
The Parent fond, must mourn the strife.

What airy phantoms had I chac'd!
What fond delusions Fancy trac'd !-
For ever hid, in cheerless gloom !—
Subsided all, within the tomb!-
To heights ideal, I pursu'd

The fair endowments, that I view'd
And saw them win the virtuous praise,
Too rarely sought in modern days.
And sure-the talents of my Son
In arts and arms the palm had won,
Had Heav'n enlarg'd his narrow span,
To full maturity of man.

With judgment ripe beyond his age,
He turn'd each bright immortal page.-
In early youth the classic hoard

His mind with high conceptions stor❜d,
From precept, and example brought,
By sages, and by heroes taught.-
He felt the pow'r of lofty rhyme,
To waken thoughts and aims sublime.
The kindling eye, the conscious breast,
The forms of good and fair confest:
The produce of his youthful vein,
Gave earnest of poetic strain.
And true to symmetry and grace,
His eye could just proportion trace,
With glance as rapid as his mind-
While fancy all he saw combin'd,
And bade his artist hand pourtray

The charms that Nature's works display.

To feel the high heroic flame,

A manly rank, with men to claim.

To feel each energy of thought,

For well he wrote, and bravely fought;

He did not live his course to guide,
By precepts classic lore supplied;
Yet, nobly prodigal of breath,

He learn'd from them contempt of death.

Scarce conscious where, I listless range, In change of place to find no change. * G 4

While

While every smiling cheek I view,
Bids all my sorrows rise anew;
And every face, that happy shows,
Appears to triumph in my woes.
Ev'n objects dearest to my heart,
With ev'ry charm a pang impart!→
Oft as I see the sun arise,

The tear shall glisten in my eyes,
For him that sought an Orient clime,
To perish in his youthful prime-
And Fancy still behold thy fall;
And still thy youthful form recall.-
Has life prolong'd her listless dream,
My Son, to make thy death my theme?
To pour the weak enervate verse,
Unworthy off'ring, on thy hearse?
For me remains the mournful pride,
To think my Son has bravely died.

LED by the star of evening's guiding fires,
That shone serene on Aden's lofty spires,
Young Agib trod the solitary plain,

Where groves of spikenard greets his sense in vain.
In wealth o'er all the neighbouring swains supreme,
For manly beauty every virgin's theme.
But no repose his anxious bosom found,
Where sorrow cherish'd an eternal wound.'
The frequent sigh, wan look, and frantic start,
Spoke the despair that prey'd upon his heart.
The haunts of men no more his steps invite,
Nor India's treasures give his soul delight:
In fields and deep'ning shades he sought relief,
And thus discharg'd the torrent of his grief.

"Ye swains, that through the bow'rs of pleasure rove,
Ye nymphs that range the myrtle glades of love,
Forgive a wretch, whose feet your bow'rs prophane,
Where joy alone and happy lovers reign:
But oh! this breast incessant cares corrode,
And urge my fainting steps to death's abode.

Joyless