He now, half-spent, regains the wood, Or plunges in the running flood: Each brake he tries, and traces o'er Those haunts he knew so well before, Where he had led the herd to graze In better times, and happier days; When Peace beam'd o'er the Sylvan reign, Nor hounds nor horns disturb'd the plain. What shall he do, or whither fly ;— His strength is gone—the foe is nigh : He lifts his weary limbs with pain, That scarce their tott'ring load sustain. One effort more in vain he tries,— The hounds o'ertake him—and he dies. The horns breathe forth the plaintive strain, Whose notes proclaim-'The deer is slain.'

DEATH follow'd on his courser pale,
Up the steep hill, or through the dale;
But, 'till the fatal hour drew nigh,

He veil'd himself from ev'ry eye.
"Twas then his horrid shape appear'd,
And his shrill voice the Hunters heard:
With his fell dart he points the way,
Th' astonish'd Hunters all obey ;

Nor can they stop the Courser's speed,
Nor can they shun the deadly deed;
But follow, with impetuous force,
The potent Phantom's mortal course

Down the steep cliff.—The Chase is o'er—
The Hunters fall-to rise no more.

Thus 'tis with man: whate'er his views,
Whate'er the game that he pursues;
Whether he seeks th' Imperial sway,
Whose sceptre myriads obey;

Or strives to place the glitt'ring plume
Of martial glory on his tomb;
Or, to attain the golden store,

Does distant seas and realms explore;
Courts ev'ry toil, and thinks it sweet
To eat the bread, the careful eat;
Or yields to Passion's stormy power,
Or basks in Virtue's sunshine hour :—
Whether the Mausoleums rise,
Whose pinnacles assail the skies,
And to far distant times proclaim

The honour of a Patriot's name :

What though the Cypress' mournful shade
Darkens the spot where Beauty's laid;

Or the clear verdure of the sod
Protects the Peasant's last abode ;
Still Fate pursues—still mortals fly,
The chase continues till they die.-
Howe'er they live, where'er they fall,

DEATH-MIGHTY HUNTER-earths them all!

THE STATESMAN

It is not wealth, it is not power
Can give to Life a ling'ring hour:
When DEATH commands, whose potent sway
All creatures that have life obey,
Monarchs must lay their sceptres down,
And yield the splendour of a crown;
For ever quit the suppliant crowd,
And change the purple for a shroud :
To-day, the victor laurels bloom,
To-morrow-wither on the tomb;
Ambition, from its tow'ring height,
Sinks to the shades of endless night :
The Miser counts his treasure o'er,

Then goes to rest-to wake no more.
When ebbing Life begins to fail

The rosy cheek of youth grows pale;
Dimm'd is the lustre of the eye,

And set the teeth of ivory.

What, though we reach the heights of Fame,

Or boast of Honour's proudest name: