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Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek;
Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall,
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear,
Give me another horse, I

cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage?—what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,

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And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield!
O guide me from this horrid scene,
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun;
The pangs of absence, O remove !
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss,
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence!
When young-eyed Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose,
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale;
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At

every season let
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm, enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to every line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd strain,
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.

my ear

O hear our prayer, 0 hither come From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave; 0 queen

of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, fill’d with unexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Who with some new unequall'd song May rise above the rhyming throng, O'er all our list'ning passions reign, O’erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, With terror shake, and pity move, Rouse with revenge, or melt with love ; O deign t'attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottos talk; Teach him to scorn with frigid art Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart; Like lightning, let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; With native beauties win applause Beyond cold critics' studied laws; o let each Muse's fame increase, O bid Britannia rival Greece.

THE DYING INDIAN.

The dart of Izdabel prevails ! 'twas dipt
In double poison—I shall soon arrive
At the blest island, where no tigers spring
On heedless hunters; where ananas bloom
Thrice in each moon; where rivers smoothly glide,
Nor thund'ring torrents whirl the light canoe
Down to the sea; where my forefathers feast
Daily on hearts of Spaniards !- my son,
I feel the venom busy in my breast,
Approach, and bring my crown, deck'd with the

teeth
Of that bold Christian who first dar'd deflow'r
The virgins of the Sun; and, dire to tell !
Robb’d Pachacamac's altar of its gems !
I mark'd the spot where they interr'd this traitor,
And once at midnight stole I to his tomb,
And tore his carcase from the earth, and left it
A prey to poisonous flies.

Preserve this crown With sacred secrecy: if e'er returns Thy much-lov'd mother from the desert woods, Where, as I hunted late, I hapless lost her, Cherish her age. Tell her, I ne'er have worshipp'd With those that eat their God. And when disease Preys on her languid limbs, then kindly stab her With thine own hands, nor suffer her to linger, Like Christian cowards, in a life of pain. I go! great Copac beckons me! Farewell!

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WILLIAM COWPER.

BORN 1731.-DIED 1800.

WILLIAM COWPER was born at Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire. His grandfather was Spenser Cowper, a judge of the Court of Common Pleas, and a younger brother of the Lord Chancellor Cowper. His father was the rector of Berkhamstead, and chaplain to George the Second. At six years of age, he was taken from the care of an indulgent mother, and placed at a school in Bedfordshire'. He there endured such hardships, as embittered his opinion of public education for all his life. His chief affliction was, to be singled out, as a victim of secret cruelty, by a young monster, about fifteen years of age; jwhose barbarities were, however, at last detected, and punished by his expulsion. Cowper was also taken from the school. From the age of eight to nine, he was boarded with a famous oculist", on account of a complaint in his eyes, which, during his whole life, were subject to inflammation. He

1 In Hayley's life his first school is said to have been in Hertfordshire. The Memoir of his early life, published in 1816, says in Bedfordshire.

• He does not inform us where, but calls the oculist Mr. D. -Hayley, by mistake, I suppose, says that he was boarded with a female oculist.

VOL. VI.

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