E who repose on

Y

EXONIENSIS.

SALVADOR.

AN ELEGY,

virtue's vernal bed,

Who quaff from fountains

of untainted, joy,

On whom the loves their choicest influence shed,
And whom no pangs of in-bred guilt annoy;

Well may ye stigmatize the coward heart,
That shrinks from pressures which it cannot bear;
Well may you execrate the ruthless dart,
Which black prefumption buries in despair !
But, ah, to you the tyranny unknown
With which conviction grafps a gloomy foul,
Unfelt by you the agonizing groan
Which beats to misery's funereal toll.
Ye calmly judge of his distracted state,
Who, wildly fupplicates the frost of death,
To lay the fury of his burning fate,
And cool his fevers with its icy breath.
Like you, Salvador, once in hope elate,
Met with new vigour each fucceeding day;
Unfetter'd yet by that reflective grate
Through which defpondence views the folar ray.
But his a parent in whose rigid breaft
Dwelt no compaffion for the faults of youth,
Whose rules preceptive were too oft exprest
By the stern mandates of unpitying truth.

Nor, thus exprest, did e'er his parent keep
A father's caution oʻer Salvador's way;

But left his feet to dissipation's steep,

And every wile where watchless sense may stray.

Yet had Salvador an ingenuous heart,
That oft revolted at the path he trod,

And oft suspicion bid his steps depart

From scenes where judgment held her poignant rod.

Susceptibility, yet uncongeal'd,

Would too aspire to that invalued prize,
Which, to integrity alone reveal'd,

For ever shines above yon passing skies.
He felt the billows that enwav'd his mind;
He felt, and struggled for that blissful shore,
Where, leaving each impediment behind,
The weight of forrow can depress no more!
He vainly struggled for conflicting sense
Obscur'd the light which confolation held,
And, only retributive providence,

In vengeance clad, his fearful eye beheld.
Yet were the fighs that conscience often knew
For deviations past, not infincere:
His, many a pillow in whose waking dew
Was plainly seen the penitential tear.
For, where the seeds of rectitude are sown,
Increasing years their benefits confefs;
And many a prayer re-breath'd to mercy's throne,
Will often soothe the furges of difstress.

Thus, in Religion, while affliction saw,
Balms that humanity could never give,
Her faith exalted, and her broken law,
To him, forbid the hypocrite to live.
And fuch Salvador deem'd the inconstant fire,
Which now will burn for Revelation's joys,
And now recur to each polluted mire,
That dims its glories and its hope destroys.

Ah-if Salvador knew that vivid flame,
Which erst enlighten'd, then misled his mind,
Now rose to actions of unfullied fame,
Anon, its ftrength to infamy confign'd.
Sure Virtue's felf might drop a pitying tear,
On all the tortures which deform'd his breast;

Sure fcrutiny might pass his wretched bier,
And foul afperfion let his forrows reft.
He did-by all the horrors of the deed
That bore his spirit from the light of day;
He did-by all the miseries we read
Breath'd to Eugenius in his parting lay:

TO EUGENIUS,

:

My best, my carliest, and my latest friend,
Eugenius, this bequeathment oft esteem,
Long, long regard; with this, my cares shall end,
Those cares which break life's ever-restless dieam.

Nor blame Salvador that he seeks to quit
A world o'erhung with curtains of difmay,
And plunges in that hofpitable pit

Where human-perfidy shall cease to prey.
There, the dark batteries by falfhood play'd,
No more enfanguine nature's fairest clime;
And there each transport expectation made,
Shall cease to bubble on the stream of time.
Yet, know, Eugenius, that I prize in death,
The treafures borne on friendship's facred tree;
That I repeat, with my expiring breath,
The num'rous bleffings I deriv'd from thee.

And, O! to merit not that kind regard
Which still would chain me to this groaning earth;
For fuch endearments, mine the base reward
Of vicious pleasure to confpicuous worth.
It must-it shall not be; I'll quit a sphere
Where fyren pleasure lures me to recline,
And while her whispers banish every fear,
Lights up the the torches of deftruction's mine.

R

TO A FRIEND on his BIRTH-DAY.

DECEMBER 31, 1796.

EGARD, my friend, this genuine strain
From friendship's artless lyre,

Which, to thy virtues justly due,
Thy virtues shall inspire.

Nor think the world-illumin'd blaze
Of valour's dread renown,
Nor all the steps ambition strides
To gain his lofty crown,

Alone demand the glowing fong
Of everlasting fame :
The fame bright energies are fann'd
By feeling's gentler flame.

Love, sensibility divine!
Are dearer to the heart;
And, than the deeds of glory, far
A happier strength impart.
One upright, sympathetic foul,
Th' inglorious muse can prize,
Above the chief whose thunders brave
The thunder of the skies!

And if that upright soul be thine,
And I-th' inglorious muse,
This fimple tribute friendship gives,
Will Davifon refuse!

S

0.

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF LOUISA.

BY MR. R. DAVENPORT.

LEEP, sweet Louisa, calmly rest, Thy toilsome task of life is o'er; Thy tender, spotless, love-lorn breast,

The hand of woe shall harm no more.

12

What though no whisper of complaint,
No loud lament for loft repose,
No paffion wild, fair fuff'ring faint!
Told the fad story of thy woes.
Full oft I pitying heard the fighs
That spoke the anguish of thy foul;
Oft mark'd how from thy flarry eyes,
Frequent the tear expressive stole.

Fast from thy cheek the roses fled,
By the chill touch of pale-grief driv'n;
Till, meék, refign'd, devoid of dread,
Thy fpirit fought its native heav'n!

O, now with fadeless glory crown'd!
The prey no more of pains fevere:
Lov'd friend! if yet the foothing found
Of mortal praise may meet thine ear-
One moment quit thy sister train,
From thy bright, blissful manfion, bend;
Approving, hear this plaintive strain
Of him who fondly call'd thee friend.
In ev'ry tender breast enshrin'd)
Long shall thy sweet remembrance dwell;
Those woes which thee to earth confign'd,
Shall those who lov'd thee often tell.
Each maid, each youth, of love the flave,
Shall figh for one to love fo true!
And bending o'er thy early grave,
The cold-fod with a tear bedew!
No noxious weed, no prickly thorn,
Shall o'er thy facred ashes creep;
But still shall sweetest flow'rs adorn
The narrow spot-where sweet they flеер.
There, he, who mourns thy shorten'd date,
Ling'ring at dewy-eve, alone,
Shall fighing, chide his wayward fate,
And with thy calm rest were his own!

M