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60 LORD GRENVILLE'S INSTALLATION.
While Gambia's swarthy tribes thy mercies bless,
thou, Our boast before-our chief and champion now.
EPITAPH ON A YOUNG NAVAL
DESIGNED FOR A TOMB IN A SEAPORT TOWN
IN NORTH WALES.
Sailor, if vigor nerve thy frame,
If to high deeds thy soul is strung,
The brave, the virtuous, and the young.
For manly beauty decked his form,
His bright eye beamed with mental power; Resistless as the winter storm,
Yet mild as summer's mildest shower.
Jn war's hoarse rage, in ocean's strife,
For skill, for force, for mercy known ;
And greatly careless of his own.
Yet, youthful seaman, mourn not thou
The fate these artless lines recall;
be thine the vow, Like him to live, like him to fall.
But hast thou known a father's care,
Who sorrowing sent thee forth to sea ; Poured for thy weal the unceasing prayer,
And thought, the sleepless night, on thee?
Has e'er thy tender fancy flown,
Thy sisters heaved the anxious sigh?
Or in the darkest hour of dread,
'Mid war's wild din, and ocean's swell, Hast mourned a hero brother dead,
And did that brother love thee well ?
Then pity those whose sorrows flow
In vain o'er Shipley's empty grave;Sailor, thou weef'st:- Indulge thy wo;
Such tears will not disgrace the brave.
AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.
OUR task is done ; on Gunga's breast
Come, walk with me the jungle through ;
Where, o'er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade, Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe, Fit warder in the gate of death, Come on-yet pause : behold us now Beneath the banıboo's arched bough, Where gemming oft that sacred gloom, Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom, And winds our path through many a bower Of fragrant tree and giant flower; The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed O'er the broad plantain's huinbler shade, And dusk anana's prickly blade; While o'er the brake, so wild and fair, The betel waves his crest in air. With pendent train and rushing wings, Aloft the gorgeous-peacock springs ; And he, the bird of hundred dyes, Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. So rich a shade, so green a sod, Our English fairies never trod; Yet who in Indian bower has stood, But thought on England's good green wood? And blessed, beneath the palmy shade, Her hazel and her hawthorn glade, And breathed a prayer, (how oft in vain,) To gaze upon her oaks again ? A truce to
: the jackal's cry