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fond mother, nourishing her infant at the cost of ner w illustrated by the story of a wounded deer flying with her fawn to the woodlands, and by the history of a soldier's wife, who, watching with her babe the distant battle, is

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So stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight,
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And view'd his banner, or believ'd she view'd.
Pleas'd with the distant roar, with quicker tread
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ;

And one fair girl amid the loud alarm

Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm;

While round her brows bright beams of honour dart,

-Near and more near the intrepid beauty press'd, Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest; Saw on his helm, her virgin-hands inwove, Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love; Heard the exulting shout, "They run! they run!" “Great GOD!" she cried, "He's safe! the battle's won!" -A ball now hisses through the airy tides, (Some Fury wing'd it, and some demon guides!) Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck, Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; The red stream, issuing from her azure veins, Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.— "Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the ground, Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of the wound; "Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn! Wait, gushing life, oh, wait my love's return! Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far!— The angel, Pity, shuns the walks of war!— Oh, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age !On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your rage!". Then with weak arms her weeping babes caress'd, And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest. From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies, Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes; Eliza's name along the camp he calls,

Eliza echoes through the canvass walls;

Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread,
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead,
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
Lo! dead Eliza weltering in her blood!—

-Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds :-

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Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,

"Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand;

Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers press'd,
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast;
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake-
Why do you weep?-Mamma will soon awake."

"She'll wake no more!" the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturn'd his eyes, and clasp'd his hands, and sigh'd:
Stretch'd on the ground awhile entranc'd he lay,
And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,

"Oh, Heavens!" he cried, "my first rash vow forgive; These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!"—

Round his chill babes he wrapp'd his crimson vest,
And clasp'd them sobbing to his aching breast.

And now, Philanthropy thy rays divine
Dart round the globe from Zembla to the Line;
O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light,
Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night.
From realm to realm, with cross or crescent crown'd,
Where'er mankind and misery are found,

O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of snow,
Thy Howard journeying seeks the house of woe.
Down many a winding step to dungeons dank,
Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank;
To caves bestrew'd with many a mouldering bone,
And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan;
Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclose,
No sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows,
He treads, inemulous of fame or wealth,
Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health,
With soft assuasive eloquence expands
Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching hands;
Leads stern-ey'd Justice to the dark domains,
If not to sever, to relax the chains;

Or guides awaken'd Mercy through the gloom,
And shows the prison, sister to the tomb !—
Gives to her babes the self-devoted wife,
To her fond husband liberty and life!—
-The spirits of the good, who bend from high
Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye,
When first, array'd in Virtue's purest robe,
They saw her Howard traversing the globe;
Saw round his brows her sun-like glory blaze
In arrowy circles of unwearied rays;
Mistook a mortal for an angel-guest,
And ask'd what seraph-foot the earth imprest.
-Onward he moves!-disease and death retire,
And murmuring demons hate him, and admire.

ROBERT LLOYD, whose father was one of the masters of Westminster School, was born in 1733. Having passed with considerable distinction through the usual routine of education, he was elected to Trinity College, Cambridge, where, although celebrated as a wit, he obtained but little credit for discretion. He took his degree in 1755, and became an usher to his father, an employment, however, little consonant to his taste or satisfying to his ambition, and which he soon relinquished in disgust. He describes himself as one

"Whom Pleasure first a willing Poet made,
And Folly spoilt by taking up the trade. '

His school-fellow, and subsequently his friend and continual associate, Churchill, was one of his lures into the world; he became "an author by profession," launched into the extravagancies, endured the vicissitudes, and paid the penalties which dissipation invariably exacts-self-reproach, a ruined constitution, and an early grave.

Although he had previously and on several occasions appeared in print, it was not until 1760 that his fame was at all commensurate with his desires. "The Actor established it, and gave to Churchill the hint of the Rosciad, by which it was eclipsed. In 1762 he became editor-it may almost be said author--of the St. James's Magazine; degenerated into a mere literary drudge, caring only to supply the necessities of the moment, at length found himself in a jail,—and, on the 15th Dec. 1764, died of a broken heart, at the age of thirty-one.

Lloyd was an accomplished scholar; his facility in composition was so great as to have been an evil; his memory was singularly tenacious; his talents were varied, and he was not an idler; yet he perished before his mind can be said to have attained its vigour; "pitied by few, by more despised;" deserted by his friends, and affording a remarkable illustration of the words of the Psalmist, “The spirit of a man may sustain his infirmities, but a wounded spirit who can bear?”

He is described as possessing many of the qualities which are unhappily often found united with moral defects, and which contribute to lessen the rigour with which irregularities are regarded. He was gentle, amiable, generous, and a most agreeable companion. It is added that he had a grateful heart, and fully appreciated the kindnesses he received. His connexion with Churchill, which, if it did not originate, contributed mainly to his unhappy and disreputable career, was, indeed, so unselfish and generous, as to be a remarkable exception to that almost universal rule which describes virtue and friendship as inseparable. Lloyd, while in jail, was supported by Churchill out of his slender means, and survived him but a few weeks. When the death of Churchill was communicated to him, he took to his bed, fell into a state of despondency, and soon died. The drama of their lives was not however yet finished. Miss Patty Churchill, who is said to have possessed much of her brother's sense, spirit, and genius, was betrothed to Lloyd, whom she soon followed to the grave. The character of the writer is also that of his productions; they are distinguished by a graceful looseness, at times terse and energetic, and then slovenly and inaccurate. Occasionally he boasts of the indifference with which he regards life, and the troubles he inherits with it; and then exhibits the restlessness of a better spirit under the stings of self-reproach. His friend Wilkes describes him as content to scamper round the foot of Parnassus on his little Welsh poney, and leaving the fury of the enraged steed, and the daring flights of the sacred mountain, to the sublimer genius of Churchill. His chief excellence was in dressing up an old thought in a "new, neat, and trim manner;" yet he has afforded abundant proof that he had fancy and vigour enough to justify higher efforts, had his mind been more wisely directed.

The poems he has left us are for the most part ephemeral; addressed to persons and referring to subjects which have ceased to interest us. He was, as we have said, either led by inclination, or compelled by circumstances, to care for no labour that did not produce an immediate recompense. The topics which engaged "the Town" were therefore those that suggested subjects for his pen. It is, however, to his honour that his rhymed compliments, of which he was sufficiently lavish, are addressed to such men as Garrick, Hogarth, Thornton, Colman, Churchill,-men worthy of praise,-and

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