Poems and miscellanies selected from the writings of Miss Eliza Townsend ::

That though, o'er many a warrior's grave,
Thou bidst the trophied banner wave,
And rescued realms shall give to fame
The laurelled bust, the pœaned name.

And though thou boast on glory's scroll
Of patriot worth a splendid roll;
Their wealth, the gain of equal laws,
Their bribe, the boon of self applause;

And though thy ocean-hero's name
Revived the ancient Decian claim;
While e'en the Turk can point and tell
Where Somers, Wadsworth, Israel fell;

Yet of the sacred sons of song,
How far too few to thee belong;
With Pallas' strength, with Hermes' fire,
Lovers of letters or the lyre.

Though nature with unsparing hand,
Has scattered round thy favored land
Those gifts that prompt th' aspiring aim,
And fan the latent spark to flame;

Such awful shade of black'ning woods,
Such roaring voice of giant floods,
Cliffs which the dizzied eagles flee,
And cat'racts tumbling to the sea;

That in this wild and lone retreat,
Great Collins might have fixed his seat;
Called Horror from the mountain's brow,
Or Danger from the deeps below!

And then, for those of milder mood,
Heedless of forest, rock, or flood,
Here too are found, the pebbly rill,
The honied vale, the breezy hill;

Gay fields bedecked with golden grain;
Rich orchards, bending o'er the plain,
Where Sydney's fairy pen had failed,
Or Mantuan Maro's muse had hailed;

Yet 'midst this luxury of scene,
These varied charms, this graceful mien,
Canst thou no hearts, no voices raise,
Those charms to feel, those charms to praise?

Then mourn thy Brown! whose ardent mind
Aonian worship early joined;
Who chose his shrine from classic bowers,
His lares from the studious hours.

Amid the busy hum of men,
He plied the strong descriptive pen,
And sketched whate'er within, around,
In motley vision could be found.

He watched of livid death the tread,
And marked each fated shaft that sped;
He crossed destruction's midnight way,
And plagues that waste in open day.

Nor chiefly here his powers were shown;
Each lighter theme he made his own;
As Folly's different freaks engage
The serious or the smiling sage.

Where'er his lucid colors glow,
Manners and life the portrait know;
And through the canvass, fiction deemed,
Reality's bold features gleamed.

Nor only his the skill to scan
The outward acts of varied man;
But his was nature's clue, to wind
Through mazes of the heart and mind.

The moral painter well portrayed,
The cause of each effect surveyed;
And breathed upon the lifeless page
The informing soul, the “noble rage.”

If gifts like these might well demand
The gen'rous tear, the votive hand,
E'en where such gifts full wide prevail,
In Latium's porch or Arno's vale;

Then mourn, my country! mourn thy son—
Fancy's beloved, the Muses' heir;
Mourn him whose course so soon was run,
Mourn him, alas! thou ill canst spare.

Arthur Mervyn.

University of Virginia Library

STANZAS

COMMEMORATIVE OF CHARLES B. BROWN, OF PHILADELPHIA, AUTHOR OF “WIELAND,” “CIMOND,” “ARTHUR MERVYN,” ETC.

[1810.]