Her ghaftly hope was well-nigh fied;
When late pale Edgar's form the found,
Half-buried with the hoftile dead,

And bor'd with many a grisly wound!

She knew-fhe funk-The night-bird fcream'd,
The moon withdrew her troubled light,
And left the fair, tho' fall'n fhe feem'd,
To worse than death-and deepest night.

ELEGY,

ON THE DEATH OF FREDERICK PRINCE OF WALES.

WRITTEN AT PARIS.

L

BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNT STORMONT.

ITTLE I whilom deem'd, my artless zeal

Should woo the British Mufe in foreign land

To strains of bitter argument, and teach

The mimic nymph, that haunts the winding verge
And oozy current of Parifian Seine,

To celebrate new founds in accent strange.

But fad occafion calls: who now forbears
The laft kind office? who but confecrates
His offering at the shrine of fair renown
To gracious Frederick rais'd; though but compos'd
Of the wafte flow'rets, whofe neglected hues
Chequer the lonely hedge or mountain slope?

Where are those hopes, where fled th' illufive fcenes
That forgeful fancy plann'd, what time the bark
Stemm'd the falt wave from Albion's chalky bourn?

Then filial Piety and parting Love

Pour'd the fond prayer- Farewel, ye leffening cliffs,
Fairer to me than aught in fabled fong,

• Or

Or myftic record told of fhores Atlantic!
Favour'd of Heaven, farewel! imperial ifle,
• Native to nobleft wits, and best approv'd
In manly science, and adventurous deed!
Celestial Freedom, by rude hand estrang'd
From regions once frequented, with thee takes
Her ftedfaft ftation, faft befide the throne
Of scepter'd rule, and there her ftate maintains
In focial concord and harmonious love.

Thefe bleffings ftill be thine, nor meddling fiend
Stir in your busy streets foul Faction's roar !
Still thrive your growing works, and gales propitious
• Vifit your fons who ride the watery waste!

And still be heard from forth your gladfome bowers • Shrill tabor-pipes, and every peaceful found!

Nor vain the wifh, while George the golden fcale
With steady prudence holds, and temperate fway.
And when his courfe of earthly honour's run,*
• With lenient hand fhall Frederick foothe your care,
Rich in each princely quality, mature

In years, and happiest in nuptial choice.

Thence, too, arife new hopes; a playful troop

Circles his hearth, fweet pledges of that bed,

Which faith, and joy, and thoufand virtues guard.
His be the care t' inform their ductile minds

With worthieft thoughts, and point the ways of honour.

• How often shall he hear with fresh delight

Their earnest tales, or watch their rifing paffions

• With timorous attention; then fhall tell

Of justice, fortitude, and public weal;

And oft the while each rigid precept smooth
With winning tokens of parental love?'

Thus my o'erweening heart the fecret ftores
Of Britain's hope explor'd, while my strain'd fight
Purfu'd her fading hills, till wrapt in mift
They gently funk behind the fwelling tide.

Nor

Nor flept thofe thoughts, whene'er, in other climes,
I mark'd the cruel wafte of foul oppreffion,
Saw nobleft fpirits, and goodlieft faculties,

To vaffalage and loathfome fervice bound.

Then confcious preference rofe; then northward turn'd
My eye, to gratulate my natal foil.

How have I chid with froward eagerness

Each veering blaft, that from my hand witheld
The well-known characters of fome lov'd friend,
Though diftant, not unmindful! Still I learn'd
Delighted, what each patriot plan devis'd,
Of arts, or glory, or diffufive commerce.
Nor wanted it's endearment every tale
Of lightest import. But, oh! heavy change,
What notices come now! Distracted scenes
Of helpless forrow, folemn, fad accounts;
How fair Augufta watch'd the weary night,
Tending the bed of anguish; how great George
Wept with his infant progeny around;
How heav'd the orphan's and the widow's figh,
That follow'd Frederick to his filent tomb.

For well was Frederick lov'd; and well deferv'd:
His voice was ever fweet, and on his steps
Attended ever the alluring grace

Of gentle lowliness and focial zeal.

Him shall remember oft the labour'd hind,
Relating to his mates each casual act
Of courteous bounty. Him th' artificer,
Plying the varied woof in fullen sadness,
Though wont to carol many a ditty fweet.
Soon, too, the mariner, who many moons
Has counted, beating ftill the foamy furge,
And treads at last the wish'd-for beach, shall stand
Appall'd at the fad tale, and foon shall steal
Down his rough cheek th' involuntary tear.

Be

Be this our folace yet; all is not dead!
The bright memorial lives: from his example
Shall Hymen trim his torch, domeftic praise
Be countenanc'd, and virtue fairer shew.
In age fucceeding, when another George,
To ratify fome weighty ordinance

Of Britain's peers conven'd, shall pass befide
Thofe hallow'd fpires, whofe gloomy vaults inclofe,
Shrouded in fleep, pale rows of fcepter'd kings,
Oft to his fenfe the sweet paternal voice
And long-remember'd features shall return;
Then fhall his generous breaft be new inflam'd
To acts of highest worth, and honest fame.

Thefe plaintive ftrains, from Albion far away,
I lonely meditate at even-tide;

Nor fkill'd, nor ftudious of the raptur'd lay;
But ftill remembering oft the magic founds,
Well meafur'd to the chime of Dorian lute,
Or paftoral stop, which erft I lov'd to hear
On Ifis' broider'd mead, where dips by fits
The ftooping ofier in her hafty ftream.

Hail, Wolfey's fpacious dome! hail, ever fam'd
For faithful nurture, and truth's facred lore,
Much honour'd parent! You my duteous zeal
Accept, if haply in thy laureat wreath
You deign to interweave this humble fong.

VERSE S,

ON A DAY OF PRAYER FOR SUCCESS IN WAR.

BY MRS. ANNE STEEL.

LORD, how fhall wretched finners dare

Look up to thy divine abode ?

Or offer their imperfect prayer
Before a juft, a holy God?

Bright

In vain we dare the hoftile field:
In vain, unless the Lord be there;
Thy arm alone is Britain's fhield.

Let paft experience of thy care
Support our hope, our truft invite!
Again attend our humble prayer,
Again be mercy thy delight!

Our arms fucceed, our councils guide,
Let thy right-hand our caufe maintain;

Till war's deftructive rage fubfide,

And peace refume her gentle reign.

O when shall time the period bring
When raging war shall waste no more;
When peace shall stretch her balmy wing
From Europe's coaft to India's fhore?

When fhall the gofpel's healing ray

(Kind fource of amity divine!)

Spread o'er the world celeftial day?
When fhall the nations, Lord, be thine?