Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.
With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round,
Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross-
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous, fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. By a MAN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN Speaker.

Yet let that wisdom, urg'd by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;

Let us prize death as the best gift of nature—
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest forever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open

To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,

Promiscuously recline;

Where wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.

And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,
May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace, be thine above!

SONG.-By a WOMAN.

Lovely, lasting Peace below,

Comforter of ev'ry woe,

Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favorites of the sky-
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN Speaker.

Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;

Celestial-like, her bounty fell

Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell:
Want pass'd for merit at her door;
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor,

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.

And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,

And art exhausts profusion round,

The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair

To dwell a weeping hermit there.'

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

Air.-Chorus.

Let us, let all the world, agree
To profit by resembling thee.

PART II.

OVERTURE.-Pastorale.

MAN Speaker.

Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,

Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;
Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;

1 From Collins's "Ode written in the beginning of the year 1746:"

While sweetly blending, still are seen,
The wavy lawn, the sloping green;
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through ev'ry maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene;-
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn a rural bard complain'd,

All whom Augusta's bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain'd.
The good old sire, unconscious of decay;
The modest matron, clad in homespun gray;
The military boy, the orphan'd maid;
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd-
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And, as they view the towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

Chorus.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,

Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore

That she who form'd your beauties is no more.

MAN Speaker.

First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,

Bending at once with sorrow and with age,

With many a tear and many a sigh between,

“And where,” he cried, "shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire?

No lord will take me now, my vigor fled,

Nor can my strength perform what they require;

Each grudging master keeps the laborer bare,

A sleek and idle race is all their care.

My noble mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, us'd to flow,

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

WOMAN Speaker.

In decent dress and coarsely clean,

The pious matron next was seen,

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;

That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.
"And ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,
"What now remains for me?

Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity?

Too late in life for me to ask,

And shame prevents the deed;

And tardy, tardy are the times
To succor, should I need.

But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my mistress known;

She still reliev'd, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless,
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long."

SONG.-By a WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.

MAN Speaker.

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart;
Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir'd his breast: