I feel these eyes suffus'd by gushing tears,
While through their crystal shine my happier years,
Fair as the Spring's first flowers, and verdant fields,
Seen through the illumin'd rains departing April
yields.

ΤΟ

MR JOHN SALT, OF LICHFIELD,*

ON HAVING READ SOME OF HIS COMPOSITIONS ON A RAINY

EVENING, IN AUGUST, 1789.

LATE on a sullen Summer night
Thy intellectual morning hung;
I mark'd its dawn with calm delight,
Whose vivid, soft, and dewy ray,
From the rich orb of Genius sprung,
Each adolescent grace among,
Gives lovely promise of a golden day.

But, leaving metaphoric lays,

Let me, ingenuous Youth, impart, Warm in the glow of honest praise,

Fond, local hopes to see thy name Increase the claims to classic art,

Philosophy and high desert,

That raise thy LICHFIELD to the heights of Fame.

* Since Dr Salt, of Birmingham.

ON THE

SUDDEN DEATH

OF THE

CELEBRATED MR NORRIS, OF OXFORD,

BATCHELOR OF MUSIC.

INSTANT the mortal stroke the warbler smote!
Eternal silence seals the tuneful throat!

Ah, NORRIS, thine! whom Albion heard so long
Pour in impressive tones the hallow'd song,
With all thy HANDEL's glorious page inspires,
Pathos that melts, and energy that fires.

* He died September the 3d, 1790, the week after he had conducted the Musical Festival, at Birmingham. He sung in the New Church in that town, "Thy rebuke hath broken his heart," from the MESSIAH, with great feeling, after he had been treated with cruel disrespect by a part of his audience the preceding evening, who hissed, on a mistaken supposition that he was intoxicated, when they saw him so much oppressed by a song of parental woe, in JEPTHA, that he was unable to finish it,

High o'er the numerous band we saw him late, Saw choirs combin'd his graceful mandate wait; And heard the too, too applicable lay

His drooping spirit's mild complaint convey

Of that injurious, that ungrateful sound,

Which the shock'd ear with ruthless force could wound,

For that his trembling nerves, oppress'd with pain, Whelm'd in resistless tears one tender strain.

Oh, when that powerful voice, in peals of praise, Led the loud chorus through the harmonic maze, Breath'd the pathetic song, that on the breast Religious awe, and contrite grief imprest, How little we divin'd, who heard ere while His full notes floating through the vaulted aisle, That death's dark clouds around the minstrel hung, That the sweet Swan his own sad requiem sung!

ON MAJOR ANDRE.

SERIOUS EPIGRAM TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.*

IN youth's gay bloom illustrious André died,
Flower of a day, nipt by the wintry storm;
His heart strung high by valour's noblest pride,
His mien with love's seducing ardour warm.

Glory, in characters of living gold,

Writes on his sacred shrine the patriot name,
And one Great Act, which bids e'en warriors old
Thank its example for their fresh-earn'd fame.

It is gratifying to see this tribute of generous eulogy paid to the memory of a gallant, unfortunate English officer, by a Frenchman, whose nation was at war with ours, at the period of Major André's death.