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service to the literature of the country, as well as a justice to the character of a person whose talents and misfortunes conspire to make him a signal object of interest.

AROUET TO AMANDA.

ONCE more, dear maid, the wretched Arouet writes;
His pen obedient, as his heart indites;

These lines may haply waste your precious time,
And his loathed writings may be deem'd a crime.
Thou say'st that friendship can afford a cure
To the deep wounds, the sorrows I endure;
The generous thought with rapture I pursue—
It must be lovely, for it comes from you.
But O how poor is friendship to express
"The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress."
Once I was happy-blest with native ease,

A friend could cheer me, and a book could please ;
But now no joys from books or friendship flow,
Not one poor respite to my load of wo.

Did not you, dearest, see my fond distress,
Beyond all power of language to express?
The whirling thought, the swift impassion'd kiss,
Delirium sweet and agony of bliss.

How have I listen'd when your accents broke,
And kiss'd the air that trembied as you spoke.
Death, friendly Death will soon relieve my pain,
Long sure he cannot be implored in vain.
When to my sight the monarch of the tomb
Shall rise terrific and pronounce my doom;
Will then Amanda, ah! she will, I trust,
Pay the last tribute to my clay-cold dust:
Will sighing say, here his last scene is o'er,
Who loved as mortal never loved before.

Dear, matchless maid! that kind concern display'd,
Would sweetly soothe my melancholy shade.
O'er my lone tomb O yield that sad relief;
Breathe the soft sigh and pour out all your grief;
Or shed one tear in pity as you pass,
And just remember that your Arouet was.

REMONSTRANCE

OF ALMASA ALLICAWN, WIFE OF ALMAS

ALLICAWN, TO WARREN HASTINGS.

It was said that Warren Hastings, having taken the husband of this lady, one of the eastern princes, prisoner, agreed to save his life for a ransom, and that he took the ransom and put the king to death.

My subjects slaughter'd, my whole kingdom spoil'd;
My treasures wasted and my husband slain.
O say, vile monster! art thou satisfied?
Hast thou, rapacious brute! sufficient wealth?
Hastings! my husband was your prisoner-
The wealth of kingdoms flew to his relief;
You took the ransom, and you broke your faith.
Almas was slain 't was perjury to your soul;
But perjury's a little crime with you.
In souls so black, it seem'd almost a virtue.
Say, cruel monster! art thou thirsting still
For human gore? O may'st thou ever thirst,
And may the righteous gods deny thee water
To cool thy boiling blood, inhuman wretch!
And, bloody ruffian! thou must go where Almas
Sits on a throne of state, and every hour
He stabs an Englishman, and sweetly feasts
Upon his bloody heart and trembling liver.
Yet, Hastings, tremble not, for thou art afe,
Yes, murderer! thou art safe from this repast:
A heart polluted with ten thousand crimes,
Is not a feast for Almas, he will pluck
That savage heart out of its bloody case,
And toss it to his dogs; wolves shall grow mad
By feeding on thy murderous carcase. More,
When some vile wretch, some monster of mankind,
Some brute like thee, perhaps thy relative,
Laden with horrid crimes without a name,

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Shall stalk through earth, and we want curses for him,
We'll torture thought to curse the wretch, and then,
To damn him most supreme, we'll call him Hastings.

THE WAR HORSE.

PARAPHRASE FROM JOB.

AGAIN the Almighty from the whirlwind broke, And thus to Job, in stern continuance, spoke :

"Didst thou the horse with strength unequall'd mould,
Whose lofty neck the writhen thunders fold?
And canst thou make the intrepid courser fly,
When steely dangers glitter in his eye?

"See all around him spreads the flamy cloud,
Spurn'd from his nostrils, while he snorts aloud,
Trembling with vigor, how he paws the ground,
And huris the thunder of his strength around!
Behold! he pants for war, and scorning flight,
Collects his strength and rushes to the fight.

"When clouds of darts a sable horror spread,
And the full quiver rattles o'er his head:
To him no dread the sound of battle bears,
The clash of armor and the strife of spears;
But o'er his neck his waving mane reclined,
Spreads to the gale and wantons in the wind:
He spurns the field, fierce, terrible, and strong,
And rolls the earth back as he shoots along.

"Lo! where the strife the distant warriors wage,
The neighing courser snuffs the sanguine rage;
While roaring trumpets and the dire affray
Provoke his laughter on that dreadful day;
More loud he snorts, more terrible he foams,
When nearer still the storm of battle comes;
And mingling roars are dreadful on the heath,
In shouts of victory, and groans of death."

RETIREMENT.

HAIL, sweet retirement, hail!

Best state of man below,

To smooth the tide of passions frail,

And bear the soul away from scenery of wo.

When, retired from busy noise,

Vexing cares and troubled joys,
To a mild serener air,

In the country we repair:
Calm enjoy the rural scene,

Sportive o'er the meadows green:

When the sun's enlivening ray

Speaks the genial month of May,

Lo! his amorous, wanton beams
Dance on yonder crystal streams;
In soft dalliance pass the hours,
Kissing dew-drops from the flowers,
While soft music through the grove,
Sweetly tunes the soul to love.
And the hills harmonious round
Echo with responsive sound;
There the turtle-dove alone,
Makes his soft, melodious moan;
While from yonder bough 't is heard,
Sweetly chirps the yellow-bird :
There the linnet's downy throat
Warbles the responsive note;
And to all the neighboring groves,
Robin Redbreast tells his loves.
There, Amanda, we might walk,
And of soft endearments talk;
Or anon we 'd listen, love,
To the gently-cooing dove.
In some sweet, embowering shade,
Some fair seat by nature made,
I my love would gently place,
On the tender woven grass:
Seated by thy lovely side,

Oh, how great would be my pride!
While my soul should fix on thine,
Oh the joy to call thee mine!

For why should doves have more delight,
Than we, my sweet Amanda, might?
And why should larks and linnets be
More happy, lovely maid, than we?

There the pride of genius blooms,
There sweet contemplation comes:
There is science, heavenly fair,
Sweet philosophy is there;
With each author valued most,
Ancient glory, modern boast.
There the mind may revel o'er
Doughty deeds of days of yore;
How the mighty warriors stood,
How the field was dyed in blood,
How the shores were heap'd with dead,
And the rivers stream'd with red;
While the heroes' souls on flame,
Urged them on to deathless fame.

Or we view a different age
Pictured in the historic page-
Kings, descending from a throne;
Tyrants, making kingdoms groan,
With each care to state allied,
And all the scenery of pride.
Or perhaps we'll study o'er
Books of philosophic lore;
Read what Socrates has thought,
And how godlike Plato wrote;
View the earth with Bacon's eyes;
Or, with Newton, read the skies;
See each planetary ball,
One great sun attracting all:
All by gravitation held,
Self-attracted, self-repelled:
We shall cheat away old time,
Passing moments so sublime.

Hail, sweet retirement, hail !
Best state of man below,

To smooth the tide of passions frail,
And bear the soul away from scenery of wo.

WHAT IS HAPPINESS?

'Tis an empty, fleeting shade,
By imagination made:

"T is a bubble, straw, or worse
"T is a baby's hobby-horse:
"T is two hundred shillings clear;
"T is ten thousand pounds a year:
'T is a title, 't is a name;

"T is a puff of empty fame;
Fickle as the breezes blow;
'T is a lady's yes or no!

And when the description's crown'd,
"T is just no where to be found.
Arouet shows, I must confess,
Says Delia, what is happiness;
I wish he now would tell us what
This self-same happiness is not.

What happiness is not? I vow,
That, Delia, you have posed me now:
What it is not-stay, let me see—
I think, dear maid, 't is not for me.

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