Or in the Field, the bravest of the brave,
For glory seek, and find it—in the Grave.

Thy hopes, I know, have a far loftier aim
Than riches, rank, vain learning, or a name:
Of love, true honour, happiness, the price
Is fixed, and must be given-Self-sacrifice.
This, through thy life, has cheerfully been paid,
And the rich recompence as freely made.
'Tis thine the same just judgment to have shown
Of thy lov'd Country's welfare and thy own.
Still has it been thy fate-thy choice-to oppose
Power and Corruption, formidable foes!

And ah! how few the victories thou hast won!
Yet wilt thou deem thyself o'erpaid by one*.
The last, the most desir'd, a victory!

Long due to him, who still survives in thee.

Oh! could even now his generous Spirit feel
For Justice, Freedom, but its ancient Zeal,
Think with what heart-felt joy he must have view'd
Evils that foil'd even him, by thee subdued.

One conflict more †, and soon shall all be free,
All, all, whate'er their Creed may chance to be.

*Repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts. + Emancipation of the Catholics.

EPITAPH

ON

MR. HENDERSON *.

BORN to delight at once and mend the age,
Life to adorn, and dignify the stage,

No more, oh HENDERSON! thy magic art
Shall wake at will each passion of the heart;
No more thy ardour fire, thy humour cheer,
Nor at thy bidding start the obedient tear!
No more shall crowds entranc'd, scarce breathing see
The dreams of Shakspeare realiz'd by thee.

Yet, were this all, this loss thy friends might bear,
And ev'n with pride the general sorrow share,

* Buried in Westminster Abbey, 3rd December, 1785.

But can they hope again, in one, to find
Thy sense and genius, wit and worth, combin'd?
Where shall thy widow'd wife, thy orphan-child
Meet love so warm, authority so mild?

Alas! thy fame shall still renew their grief:
And Time itself to them refuse relief.

THE ROSE.

POET.

SAY, lovely Rose, so fragrant and so fair!
Why art thou doom'd these rugged thorns to bear?
None sure would steal thee from thy native bower,
Though smooth thy stem, and silken as thy flower.

ROSE.

Once was I a poor weed, a worthless briar;
Till HE, who tun'd thy voice, and strung thy lyre,
Bade me these soft and blushing leaves to bear,
And scatter perfume to the summer-air.

For, as she fled whose love he long had sought,

Her fluttering garments in my branches caught,

And she was won to listen to his vows:

When lo! these blooms, these odours deck'd my boughs!