TO MISS AURELIA C-R,

On her weeping at her Sister's Wedding.
Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn;
Lament not Hannah's happy state:
You may be happy in your turn,

And seize the treasure you regret.
With Love united Hymen stands,

And softly whispers to your charms,-
Meet but your lover in my bands,
You'll find your sister in his arms.'

A monument has been erected by public subscription to Collins. He is represented as just recovered from a wild fit of phrensy, to which he was subject, and in a calm and reclining posture, seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the consolations of the Gospel, while his lyre and one of the first of his poems lie neglected on the ground, &c. The whole was executed by Flaxman, at that time lately returned from Rome: the following most excellent epitaph was written by Mr. Hayley.

Ye who the merits of the dead revere,

Who hold misfortune's sacred genius dear,

Regard this tomb, where Collins, hapless name,
Solicits kindness with a double elaim.

Though Nature gave him, and though Science taught
The fire of Fancy, and the reach of thought,
Severely doom'd to Penury's extreme,

He pass'd in madd'ning pain life's fev'rish dream,
While rays of genius only served to shew
The thick'ning horror, and exalt his woe.
Ye walls, that echo'd to his frantic moan,
Guard the due records of this grateful stone;
Strangers to him, enamour'd of his lays,
This fond memorial to his talents raise.
For this the ashes of a bard require,
Who touch'd the tend'rest notes of Pity's lyre;
Who join'd pure faith to strong poetic powers,
Who, in reviving Reason's lucid hours,
Sought on one book his troubled mind to rest,
And rightly deem'd the book of God the best.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN BY SCOTT, OF AMWELL, ON HIS RETURN FROM CHICHESTER, WHERE HE HAD IN VAIN ATTEMPTED TO FIND THE BURIAL-PLACE OF COLLINS.

To view the beauties of my native land,

O'er many a pleasing, distant scene, I rove; Now climb the rock, or wander on the strand, Or trace the rill, or penetrate the grove.

From Baia's hills, from Portsea's spreading wave,
To fair Cicestria's lonely walls I stray;
To her famed Poet's venerated grave

Anxious my tribute of respect to pay.

O'er the dim pavement of the solemn fane,

Midst the rude stones that crowd the' adjoining space, The sacred spot I seek: but seek in vain

In vain I ask-for none can point the place.

What boots the eye whose quick observant glance
Marks every nobler, every fairer form?

What, the skill'd ear that sound's sweet charms entrance, And the fond breast with generous passion warm?

What boots the power each image to portray,

The power with force each feeling to express? How vain the hope that through life's little day,

The soul with thought of future fame can bless. While Folly frequent boasts th' insculptured tomb,

By Flattery's pen inscribed with purchased praise; While rustic Labour's undistinguish'd doom

Fond Friendship's hand records in humble phrase; Of Genius oft and Learning worse the lot,

For them no care, to them no honour shewn: Alive neglected, and when dead forgot,

E'en COLLINS slumbers in a grave unknown.

ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I.

SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL.

Scene A Valley near Bagdat. Time-The Morning. 'YE Persian maids! attend your poet's lays, And hear how shepherds pass their golden days. Not all are blest, whom Fortune's hand sustains With wealth in courts; nor all that haunt the plains: Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; 'Tis virtue makes the bliss where'er we dwell.'

Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspired; Nor praise, but such as Truth bestow'd, desired : Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd Informing morals to the shepherd maid; Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find, What groves nor streams bestow-a virtuous mind.

When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride, The radiant morn resumed her orient pride; When wanton gales along the valleys play, Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away; By Tigris' wand'ring waves he sat, and sung This useful lesson for the fair and young:

'Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong-
Well may they please-the morals of my song:
No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found,
Graced with soft arts, the peopled world around!
The morn that lights you, to your love supplies
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:
For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow,
And yours the love that kings delight to know.

Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are,
The best kind blessings Heaven can grant the fair!
Who trust alone in Beauty's feeble ray,
Boast but the worth Bassora's pearls display;

Drawn from the deep, we own their surface bright,
But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light:

Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast, By sense unaided, or to virtue lost.

Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain.

That Love shall blind, when once he fires the swain;
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,
As spots on ermine beautify the skin:

Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair;
Each tender passion man delights to find,
The loved perfections of a female mind!

'Blest were the days when Wisdom held her reign, And shepherds sought her on the silent plain } With Truth she wedded in the secret grove, Immortal Truth! and daughters bless'd their love.

"O haste, fair maids! ye Virtues, come away, Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way! The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore, By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more.

'Lost to our fields, for so the Fates ordain, The dear deserters shall return again.

[clear,

Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are
To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear:
Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen:
With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,
Distrusting all, a wise, suspicious maid;

But man the most-not more the mountain doe
Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.

Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;
A silken veil conceals her from the view.
No wild desires amidst thy train be known,
But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone:
Desponding Meekness, with her downcast eyes,
And friendly Pity, full of tender sighs:

And Love, the last: by these your hearts approve,
These are the virtues that must lead to love.'

Thus sung the swain; and ancient legends say,
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along,
The shepherds loved, and Selim bless'd his song.

ECLOGUE II.

HASSAN: OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.

Scene The Desert. Time-Mid-day.

IN silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The driver Hassan with his camels past;
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice sigh'd, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:
'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day.
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

"Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst or pinching hunger that I find!
Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,
When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign;
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?

"Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share! Here, where no springs in murmurs break away, Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day, In vain ye hope the dear delights to know, Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow: