Yes Beauty-thy tear that from sympathy flows,
To Manhood shall ever be dear:
"Tis the balm of all ills, and the cure of all woes; And the heart-rankling wounds of remembrance shall
That Beauty has wash'd with a tear.
CATO'S REPLY,
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH,
BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQR.
NCE on a time, as holy authors* say,
A Roman Knight met Catot on the way;
"Kind Sir," quoth he, " your speedy counsel lend; Strange portents are abroad, that fright your friend :
"A prodigy I've seen :-last night a rat
"Eat my old shoe-what think you, Sir, of that? My wife is sick :-and hence I surely spy
"She will recover, or myself will die."
Thus spake the knight, and thus the seer began,
"Your idle fears dispel, and be a man.
"Rats will maraud; and if I augur true,
"Nor death, nor disappointment thence ensue.
"If your old shoe, indeed, had eat the rat,
"I should have thought a prodigy in that."
+ Cato was one of the College of Augurs.
LATE A LIEUTENANT IN THE INDIA COMPANY's
Written at the Age of Sixteen Years.
FROM the calm bow'rs of learning; and the shades,
Where erst I mus'd th' instructive classic lore,
From the parental side, the shelter safe,
Of a fond father's late endearing roof,
Launch'd out, at once, upon the waste immense,
Of Life's broad ocean: aid Me, gracious Heav'n,
With Honour, Fame, and Virtue to arrive
At the last Goal, which all mankind to reach
Are fated; when run out this race call'd life.
Farewel!-my Country! O my Native Land,
Farewel!-that land which nurs'd my youthful years,
And train'd me up to manhood! could my mind
Dethrone her recollection, draw around
The veil of dark Oblivion, o'er the scenes
These eyes have witness'd, and thy guilty plains,
Delug'd with native blood! the dire effects
Of civil fury, which together drove
O Erin!-hapless Erin!drove thy sons
To wade for mast'ry through each other's blood.-
Yet still thou art my country.-Still, shall I
Still, Glory to be call'd Hibernian born!
O country, honour'd as my native soil!
O honour'd, yet still more, whose bosom holds
A lov'd—and loving-Father! Yet my soul
Clings to the soil which bore me! and to part,
And-oh-perhaps-to part for ever!-wakes,
Wakes-in my heart-a latent feeling known
At absence only from what's held so dear.-
Ye Cypress glooms, whose weeping boughs o'erhang
That hallow'd spot, and shade that urn around,
Which holds the ashes of my honour'd Mother!*
How sweet a haunt! your dark embow'ring shades,
Abstracted in deep thought, where I have stray'd.
And oft your shades have witness'd, when retir'd
Both from the noise and clamour of the crowd,
In sullen contemplation would I muse
And oft invoke the tuneful nine to come,
With influence, from the Pegasean fount ;
And call around me all the pow'rs of song,
In sober Melancholy's garb array'd.-
And now,
O shades, Ye witness, for Ye must
Witness-my long-my sad-my last farewel.
No more may I the thoughtful paths frequent;
No more recline beneath the gloomiest shade;
No more delight me, with the whispering sound
Of breezes, stealing thro' each dark recess ;-
No more, attentive, listen to the voice
* Her maiden name was Martha Boles, an elegant and beautiful woman, first wife of the writer's Father.
Of sportive echo, answering back my lays.-
How oft, at fall of evening, have I climbed
Along the scope of yon hoar hill's ascent;
And viewed beneath me, from his misty top,
The wide extended Ocean, by the winds
Infuriate toss'd! or saw its glassy face,
While ev'ry wave lay motionless and calm,
Reflect the craggs, impendent o'er its deep,
Its placid bosom seeming to invite
The credulous mariner to trust the smiles
Of Ocean's faithless and tremendous gulph!
Thrice happy Ye! whom Fate's behest ordains
The simple tenants of the rural shade !
Most enviable state; enjoy your bliss,
And, thank kind Providence ! my lot is set,
In such a station, as to roam beyond
My native limits, to far distant tribes,
Of different hues, and of a speech unknown.--
How vain the projects all of feeble man!
Fondly did I felicitate myself,
On the domestic lot; and little thought
Myself ordain'd to travel o'er the deep,
To find my portion set-far-far-away,
In distant climes-attainable by few.-
Ah me! now sorrowing must I part those scenes,
Endear'd by long acquaintance; where a child
I've sportive strayed-and grown to riper years,
Have known to feel departure more severe,
And lose those friends, companions of my youth.
And, yet-My Father-oh! had Heaven indulg'd
My wish! yet, wise are Heav'n's supreme decrees.--
Me Honour calls-my Father's wish incites,
That wish-most sure-the welfare of his child
His wish determines-and my welfare tells
That I should wish the same! Fortune invites-
Already Fancy wafts me to the shores
Of rich Hindustan, and around I view
The richest products bounteous Nature gives.
The reader will peruse the foregoing lines with indulgence, while he considers the youth of the writer, and with interest and sympathy when he reflects on his early and heroic death. They were written immediately before the embarkation of the author for India. After remaining there four years, and surmounting all the effects of a climate fatal to so many, he fell in action, in the battle of Delhi, under General Lake, on the 11th of September, 1803, in the twenty-first year of his age. The only consolation remaining to the afflicted father of this gallant and accomplished young man, is the reflection, that if his career was short, it was unstained by crime, and closed in glory.
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.
νεω δε τε παν ̓ ἐστεοικεν
Αρης κλαμενος δε δαιγμενω ὀξει χαλκω.
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,
|