id="id00138">Rest, anxious spirit! from life's feverish dream,
From all its sad realities and cares:
Be this thy Epitaph, thy honour'd boast—
Thine was the fame, which thine own mind achieved!

[Footnote 1: Dr. Abel was greatly distinguished in his profession for his love of it, and for the ardour of his pursuits in useful knowledge. —He published many ingenious Papers on Medical Science and Natural History. His account of the Embassy to China, under Lord Amherst, has been generally admired. He practised with increasing respect as a Physician, at Brighton, previous to his leaving England for India; and meditated (as the Author of this article knows) one or two works, which, from the activity of his mind, may yet be anticipated. Dr. Abel was a native of Bungay, in Suffolk (where his father was a banker), and it is supposed was about 35 years of age when he died. It is worthy of remark, that the present eminent and estimable Dr. Gooch, Librarian to His Majesty, and Dr. Abel, should both have been pupils of Mr. Borrett, Surgeon, of Yarmouth.]

SONNET.

NIGHT.

Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread,
  See want and infamy, as forth they come,
  Lead their wan daughter from her branded home,
To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread.
Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek
  And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made;
  And the sweet lustre of thine eye doth fade,
And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak.
O! miserable state! compell'd to wear
  The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast
  Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd;
Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear!
Oh! GOD OF MERCY! bid her woes subside,
And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside.

CONSTANCY.

TO——.

Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee,
  Be this record inscribed on thy tomb:
Truth, and gratitude, well may applaud thee,
  And all thy past virtues relume.

It shall tell—to thy sex's proud honour,
  Of sufferings and trials severe,
While still, through protracted affliction,
  Not a murmur escaped; but the tear

Of resignment to Heaven's high dictates,
  'Twas thine, like a martyr, to shed:
That heart—all affection for others—
  For thyself, uncomplainingly, bled.

Midst the storms, which misfortune had gather'd,
  What an angel thou wert unto me;
In that hour, when all friendship seem'd sever'd,
  Thou didst bloom like the ever-green tree!

All was gloom; and in vain had I striven,
  For hope ceased a ray to impart;
When thou cam'st, like a meteor from heaven,
  And gave peace to my desolate heart!

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

Give me the wreath of friendship true,
  Whose flowerets fade not in a breath:
From memory gaining many a hue,
  To bloom beyond the touch of death.

And I will send it to thy home—
  Thy home beloved, my faithful friend!
And pray for its perpetual bloom
  And every bliss that earth can send.

Within its magic wreath I'd place
  Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower;
To win thee by their matchless grace,
  And cheer and bless the lonely hour.

When at the world's unkind return
  Of all thy worth, and all thy care,
Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn,
  And shed the sad, the bitter, tear.

Then, midst this holy grief of thine,
  The thought of some true friend may bless,
And cheer the gloom like angel's smile,
  Or sunbeam in a wilderness.

And could I hope I had a claim
  On thee in such a rapturous hour?
Oh! that, indeed, I'd own were fame.
  The saving ark of friendship's power.

Or that, in future years, thy babes
  Should o'er this frail memorial bend,
(For first affection rarely fades!)
  And boast that I was once the friend

Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm,
  By Parents loved, and them caress'd.
That spell would every sorrow calm,
  And bid my anxious spirit rest!

HERE IN OUR FAIRY BOWERS WE DWELL.

A GLEE.

Sung by Messrs. GOULDEN, PYNE, and NELSON.—Composed by
Mr. ROOKE.

Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell,
  Women our idol, life's best treasure!
Echo enchanted joys to tell,
  Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure.
        Say, is not this then bliss divine,
        Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?

Eternal mirth and sunshine reign,
  For grief we cannot find the leisure;
Night's social gods have banish'd pain,
  Morn lights us to increasing pleasure.
        Say, is not this then bliss divine,
        Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?
            Here in our fairy bowers, &c.

HENRY AND ELIZA.

O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung,
  And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring;
The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung,
  And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing.

At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen
  The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay),
With pensive step, and melancholy mien,
  O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray.

Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined,
  And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze
Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined,
  His cherub train prepared the torch to raise:

When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd,
  And honour call'd her Henry from her charms.
He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd,
  Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms!

In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world
  Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread;
For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd,
  Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head.

Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought
  The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd;
While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught,
  And smiling innocence around them play'd.

But these were past! and now the distant bell
  (For deep and pensive thought had held her there)
Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell,
  While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air.

Again 'twas silence—when from out the gloom
  She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide:
'Twas Henry's form!—what pencil shall presume
  To paint her horror!——HENRY AS HE DIED!

Enervate, long she stood—a sculptured dread,
  Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain;
Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled,
  And sunk in dreadful agony of pain.

Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave,
  When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung,
Could equal that which gave her to the grave,
  The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue.