tiny sublime;
Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own,
And win the treasures of recorded time;
The forms of polity, the springs of power,
Exploring still with inexhausted zeal;
Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour
Through Thought's unfolding tracts--thy Country's weal!
While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms,
Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified:
"Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms,
Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified,
And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine
Interminably bright in thy illustrious line!"

'Tis past--thy name, with every charm it bore,
Melts on our souls, like music heard no more,
The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain,
Which mortal hand shall never wake again--
But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light,
Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight;
If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow,
Permit communion with this world of woe;
And sore, if thus our fond affections deem,
Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream--
Benignant shade! the beatific kiss
That seal'd thy welcome to the shores of bliss,
No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feel
If thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal;
If hovering yet, with viewless ministry,
In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee,
Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears,
A Sire's, a Husband's, and--a Mother's tears!--

Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs,
Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise:
And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that wait
Earth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate,
Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while,
And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle!

THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY.

Sung by Mr. PYNE.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.

Come away, come away, little fly!
Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest;
If you do, I protest you shall die,
And your tomb be that beautiful breast.
Don't tickle the girl in her sleep,
Don't cause so much beauty to sigh;
If she frown, half the graces will weep,
If she weep, all the graces will die.
Come away, little fly, &c.

Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone;
Life is precious: away, little fly!
Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,
You'll meet death from the glance of her eye.
Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say
How I felt, as the flutterer I chid;
I should own, as I drove it away,
I wish'd to be there in its stead!
Come away, little fly, &c.

THE