To the harvesters of Heaven,
Their office feem'd already given;
And viewless squadrons of the sky,
Seem'd around the task to ply;
On ridgy hill and russet mead,

The swathes and sheaves alternate fell,
And ever and anon was heard,

The deep-ton'd funeral bell:
As death had meant, in active speed,
His rustic rivals to excel.
And many a busy hand appear'd

To cull the TARES, a task severe,

And to their final doom to bear.Ye thoughtless men-prepare to meet your God, And learn to deprecate the lifted rod!

3.

Not such wert THOU, altho' a sudden fate,
Lamented HILL! consign'd thee to the dust;
Yet to thy large benevolence, we trust,
Heaven opes the glories of th' empyreal state.
The social virtues all were thine;

And ONE that rose to heights divine;
The man that injured, you forgave,
You pitied sin's entangled slave,
And lur'd him from the fatal snare,
With holy and paternal care;
Till, by thy great example taught,
His heart the glow of virtue caught;

Forgiveness, even of deep injuries, formed a conspicuous part of the character of the late Marquis. A remarkable instance which distinguished the last year of his life, is here alluded to; wherein every particular mentioned here, was exhibited in the most amiable light, in his conduct to an individual.

And not (we hope) a transient heat, Soon from the torpid breast to fleet. This might seem flattery, while you liv'd to tell; But flattery now is o'er :

Hark! to the musick of yon mournful bell;

Yon solemn vault has clos'd the door

On adulation; ye, attend the call,

Whom Heaven, like him allows the means to ease
Pining Worth, or sore Distress;

A dread eye views this air-invested ball,

A giant arm uplifts the cloudy pall,

That shews the realms of Woe, or everlasting Peace.

CHORUS*.

WHO deserves the civic wreath ?
Who to fill the curule chair?

Feast from gold, sweet perfumes breathe,
And all that Honour gives to share?
The brave, the brave, the patriot brave,
Who toil their Country's rights to save.

Who deserves the chace to join?
Who to dwell in woods serene?
Build his hut, and prune his vine,

And trim his porch with olives green t

The brave, the brave, the patriot brave,
Who toil their Country's rights to save.

* From the Corsicans, an unfinished Play, by C. Leftly, Esq.

TO A LADY'S BLACKBIRD.

BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ.

"I would I were thy Bird!"

ROMEO.

SAY, happy Bird, when sunk to rest,
On the soft couch of EMMA's breast,

Say, wouldst thou on that heaven of snow,
Expand thy jetty pinions wide,

To bid that heaven more spotless shew,

Or half it's beauties envious hide?

Too happy Bird, what boundless bliss
Awaits thee in thy EMMA's kiss!-
Too happy Bird, indulg'd to sip
The nectar of thy EMMA's lip!
Soon as thy bill the gift receives,
Ere that lov'd seat the rapture leaves,
Haste, hither haste on friendly plume,
Around me shed the chaste perfume;
Bear to my lip the fragrant store,
And there the spicy treasure pour!

Too happy Bird, ah vain my prayer,
Vain are my sighs, my tears are vain;
To me thy wings no blessings bear,
Thy songs unpitying mock my pain!

Thou woulds't not leave that Throne of Love,
The perils of the air to prove:

Thy EMMA, oh that I could say,

My EMMA's voice would bid thee stay;
Think not she'd loose thy wings, to try
The unknown dangers of the sky:

Yet, shouldst thou 'scape, her song would lure
Back to his cage her "Tawny Moor *"
Back to his cage, that song to learn,

Her "Way-worn Traveller *" would return.

Too happy Bird, ah would she deign
To cast one smile, one look on me,
With pride, with joy, I'd bless the chain,
That told me I could ne'er be free!

Ah wouldst thou, perch'd beside her ear,
Reject the jealous doubts of fear;
Ah wouldst thou, her cold heart to move,
There whistle tender notes of love;
Then, if thy true, thy artless tale,
Can o'er her pitying breast prevail;
Would she, too happy Bird, to me,
Confide her care, her love for thee;
Thy cage unwearied would I tend,
Thy guardian, and thy constant friend.

Too happy Bird, ah swell thy throat,
Thy powers of soft persuasion raise,
To EMMA's ear attune the note,

1794.

And Love, kind Love, shall bless thy lays!

*Two Songs in "the Mountaineers," which the Lady was in the habit of playing.

WANDERING MARY.

BLEAK blows the storm upon that breast
Whose guest is life-consuming sorrow;
Oh take me to some place of rest,

Where I may slumber 'till to-morrow.
You view my face-it once was fair—
At least so said my charming Harry;
But he is gone-and black despair

Is all that's left to Wand'ring Mary!

Bright shone our blythesome bridal hour,
Love shook his wings with pleasure beaming;
But soon he left our little bow'r,

While I of bliss was fondly dreaming:

A soldier's coat allur'd my love,

I wept-I kneel'd-he would not tarry-
I pray'd him by the pow'rs above,
Not to desert his faithful Mary.

Alas! how shall I speak the rest,

The grief that's in my bosom burning? The cold clay clothes his bloody breast! And can you blame his Mary's mourning? Nor house, nor home, nor friend have I, Except this babe, my pledge of Harry; And famine dims his infant eye,

That us'd to glad the mournful Mary.