Nor wish for more; who conquer but who die.
Hear, Folly, hear, and triumph in the tale!
Like you they reafon, not like you enjoy

The breeze of blifs that fills your filken fail ;

'On pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gaily feer

Your little courfe to cold oblivion's shore ; They dare the storm, and through th' inclement year Stem the rough furge, and brave the torrents roar,

Is it for glory that fad fate denies :

Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud, Ere from her trump the heav'n breath'd accents rise, That lift the hero from the fighting crowd!

Is it his grafp of empire to extend?

To curb the fury of insulting foes? Ambition ceafe! the idle contest end:

'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose.

And why muft murder'd myriads lofe their all
(If life be all!) why defolation low'r
With famish'd frown on this affrighted ball,
That thou may'ft flame the meteor of an hour?

Go, wifer ye that flutter life away,

Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high ! Weave the light dance, with feftive freedom gay,

And live your moment, fince the next ye die '

Yet know, vain fceptics! know the Almighty Mind,

Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire,
Bade his free foul, by earth nor time confin'd:
To heav'n, to immortality aspire.

Nor fhall the pile of hope his mercy rear'd
By vain philofophy be e'er destroy'd

Eternity, by all or wish'd or fear'd,
Shall be by all or fuffer'd or enjoy'd!

THE DRUM.

BY SCOTT.

HATE that drum's difcordant found,

Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,

To fell their liberty for charms

Of tawdry lace and glittering arms,
And when ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's difcordant found,
Parading round, and round, and round,
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd twains,

And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphan's moans :

And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

EDWIN AND ELTRUDA.

BY HELEN WILLIAMS.

WAS eafy in her looks to trace
An emblem of her mind:

There dwelt each mild-attractive grace,
Each gentle grace combin'd,

Soft as the morning dews arife,
And on the pale flower gleam,
So foft fo fweet her melting eyes
With love and pity beam.

As far retir'd the lonely flower
Smiles in the defert vale,

And blows its balmy fweets to pour
Upon the flying gale;

So liv'd in folitude unfeen

This lovely peerless maid;

So fweetly grac'd the vernal scene,

And bloffom'd in the fhade,

Yet love could pierce the lone recess,

For there he loves to dwell;

He scorns the noify crowd to bless.
And feeks the lonely cell.

There only his refiffless dart

In all its powers is known;
His empire fays each willing heart:
They live to love alone.

Edwin of every grace posses,

First taught her heart to prove That gentle paffion of the breast, To feel the power of love.

Though few the pastures he poffeft,

Though scanty was his store.

Though wealth ne'er fwell'd his hoarded cheft,

Edwin could boast of more!

Edwin could boast the liberal mind,

The generous ample heart;

And every virtue heav'n inclin'd

To bounty, can impart.

The maxims of the fervile age,
The mean, the selfish care,

The fordid views that now engage
The mecenary pair,

R

Whom riches can unite or part,
To them was all unknown;
For then the fympathetic heart
Was link'd by love alone.

They little knew that wealth had power

To make the constant rove;

They little knew the fplendid dower
Could add a blifs to love.

They little knew the human breast

Could pant for fordid ore;

Or, of a faithful heart poffeft,

Could ever wish for more.

And though her peerless beauty warms
His heart to love inclin'd;

Not lefs he felt the lafting charms.
The beauties of her mind

Not lefs his gentle foul approv'd
The virtues glowing there;
For furcly virtue to be lov'd
Needs only to appear.

The sweets of dear domeftic blifs

Each circling hour beguil'd;

And meek-ey'd Hope, and inward Peace, On the lone manfion fmil'd.