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SONG.

FROM

THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

The wretch, condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies ;
And every pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

SONG
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the pass'd to pain; Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

STANZAS

ON

THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

Aud quells the raptures which from pleasures

start.

Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead !

Since from thy tomb a thonsand heroes rise.

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What beart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

Who long was a bookseller's back;
He led such a damnable life in this world-

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN
BY THE POET LABERIUS,

a Roman Knight,
WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.

WHAT! no way left to shun the’ inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ;
Unawed by power, and unappall’d by fear,
With honest thrift I held my bonour dear:
But this vile bour disperses all my store,
And all my board of honour is no more;
For, al! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine:
Him I obey, whom Heaven himself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

PROLOGUE

TO
THE TRAGEDY OF ZOBEIDE.

In these bold times, when learning's sons explore
The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.

With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading-
Yet ere he lands bas order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord! what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder :

[Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen them

[Pit. Here trees of stately size--and billing turtles in them

[Balconies.

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