OCCASIONAL ELEGY.

THE scene of death is closed, the mournful strains Dissolve in dying languor on the ear;

Yet Pity weeps, yet Sympathy complains,

And dumb Suspense awaits o'erwhelm'd with fear.

But the sad Muses, with prophetic eye,
At once the future and the past explore;
Their harps oblivion's influence can defy,
And waft the spirit to the eternal shore.

Then, O Palemon! if thy shade can hear
The voice of friendship still lament thy doom,
Yet to the sad oblations bend thine ear,

That rise in vocal incense o'er thy tomb.

In vain, alas! the gentle Maid shall weep,
While secret anguish nips her vital bloom;
O'er her soft frame shall stern diseases creep,
And give the lovely victim to the tomb.

Relentless frenzy shall the Father sting,
Untaught in virtue's school distress to bear;

Severe remorse his tortured soul shall wring'Tis his to groan and perish in despair.

Ye lost companions of distress, adieu !

Your toils and pains and dangers are no more! The tempest now shall howl, unheard by you, While Ocean smites in vain the trembling shore.

On you the blast, surcharged with rain and snow, In winter's dismal nights no more shall beat; Unfelt by you the vertic sun may glow,

And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat.

No more the joyful maid, the sprightly strain Shall wake, the dance to give you welcome home; Nor hopeless Love impart undying pain,

When far from scenes of social joy you roam.

No more on yon wide watery waste you stray, While hunger and disease your life consume; While parching thirst, that burns without allay, Forbids the blasted rose of health to bloom.

No more you feel Contagion's mortal breath,
That taints the realms with misery severe :
No more behold pale Famine, scattering death,
With cruel ravage desolate the year.

The thundering drum, the trumpet's swelling strain,
Unheard shall form the long embattled line:
Unheard, the deep foundations of the main
Shall tremble when the hostile squadrons join.

Since grief, fatigue, and hazards still molest
The wandering vassals of the faithless deep,
O! happier now, escaped to endless rest,
Than we who still survive to wake and weep.

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OCCASIONAL ELEGY.

What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear,
Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell;
Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier,
Who sadly listen to the passing-bell:

The tutor❜d sigh, the vain parade of woe,
No real anguish to the soul impart ;
And oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow,
Belies the latent feelings of the heart.

What though no sculptured pile your name displays, Like those who perish in their country's cause; What though no epic Muse in living lays

Records your dreadful daring with applause :

Full oft the flattering marble bids renown
With blazon'd trophies deck the spotted name;
And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown
The slaves of vice with never-dying fame.

Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil
Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere,
And soft compassion at your tragic tale
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.

THE END.

Printed by Walker & Greig,
Edinburgh.

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