Wolfe rush'd on death in manhood's bloom, Paulet crept slowly to the tomb;

Here breath, there fame was given :

And that wise Power who weighs our lives By contras and by pros contrives

To keep the balance even.

To thee she gave two piercing eyes,
A body-just of Tydeus' size;

A judgment sound and clear;
A mind with various science fraught,
A liberal soul, a threadbare coat,
And forty pounds a year.

To me one eye not over good,

Two sides that, to their cost, have stood
A ten years' hectic cough;
Aches, stitches, all the numerous ills
That swell the devilish doctor's bills,
And sweep poor mortals off:

A coat more bare than thine; a soul
That spurns the crowd's malign control;
A fix'd contempt of wrong;

Spirits above affliction's power;
And skill to charm the lonely hour
With no inglorious song.

W. GIFFORD.

ON

THE FOURTH OF NOVEMBER,

The Anniversary of the Revolution, 1688.

IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS.

WHAT Constitutes the Bard?
Not silver sounds nor numbers that compel
Proud Tyranny's regard;

Not the sweet witchery of Fancy's spell,
That can at will entrance

The captive sense, and bid the charmed soul
To faery measures dance:

No-but an energy that spurns control,
An intellectual fire

That, fann'd by Freedom, to sublimest heights
Impels us to aspire,

And from base earth the spirit disunites :
This constitutes the Bard.

Then in the shouts that 'ring from side to side'
Loud o'er the rest be heard

The Muse's hail! which at this season wide
May pour the patriot rage:

She, Freedom's best ally, whose voice alone,
Through every clime and age

Prevailing, mocks the thunders of the throne!

DR. T. PERCY.

PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM;

FOR CHARLES S. ARNOLD, TAVISTOCK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON.

ELEGANT EXTRACTS.

PART VI.

Ballads, Songs, and Sonnets.

THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH.

A Ballad.

ALLUDING TO A STORY RECORDED OF HER WHEN

SHE WAS PRISONER AT WOODSTOCK, 1554.

WILL you hear how once repining
Great Eliza captive lay,

Each ambitious thought resigning,
Foe to riches, pomp, and sway?

While the nymphs and swains, delighted,
Tripp'd around in all their pride;
Envying joys by others slighted,

Thus the royal maiden cried :

'Bred on plains, or born in valleys,
Who would bid those scenes adieu?

Stranger to the arts of Malice,
Who would ever courts pursue?

VOL. III.

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