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THE DEATH OF HOSSEIN.

The affecting narration of the death of Hossein, the grandson of Mahomet, may be read (it is, indeed, a pleasure to read it,) in Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," vol. v. page 268, quarto edition.

THE Fatimites wearied, yet fearless oppose,

Though thinn'd in their numbers, their multiplied foes; With despair in their looks, how they rage o'er the field! Though broken, their triumph is never to yield!

Their sabres well-flesh'd, still gleam in the air,
They fight like the lion aroused from his lair;
Each stroke is a death-blow,—in vain, for beneath
The pressure of myriads their last gasp they breathe.

But one yet remains. On, boasters! and slay
The noblest of victims that's stricken to-day!
'Tis Hossein the valiant-unarm'd, yet unmoved,
Though his heart inly bleeds for the brave ones he loved.

Near his tent he awaits the sad signal, and see
His boys in the spring-time of age on his knee!
He weeps, but the tear for their sorrow is shed,
Now, now, to their hearts swift the death-shaft is sped!

O spare him ye murderers, childless, alone

He bends o'er the lifeless, their death-knell his groan ; He cries to his God in his agony now,

The damp sweat commingling with blood on his brow!

Still merciless! on, ye brave monsters! imbrue
Your hands in his blood, who is praying for you.
Bereft of its ivy, the desolate wall

Invites the destroyer to hasten its fall :—

The warrior is dying! what spirit appears

To rush from his tent ?-'tis his sister in tears!

"Yet save him—my brother-look, look how he bleeds!

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· Oh, Shamar!”—in vain the fair suppliant pleads!

He is slain!-but the Moslems yet cherish his fame,
And dear to the hearts of the young is his name :
And the aged revere it; the freeman and slave
Still mourn for the death of the gentle and brave.

ON

THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

WELL might the comic Muse, with drooping head,
Heave the deep sigh-her Sheridan is dead:
The sisters mourn for him, whose master-mind
Each separate talent in itself combined,
Wit, eloquence, and poetry; the fame
Of either had immortalised his name.

O, could the Muse's skill but match her zeal,
Then might the mournful lay, like his, appeal
To British hearts; like his, when Garrick died;
How glow'd the verse to sympathy allied!

Each word with plaintive sweetness charm'd the ear,
As flowers exhale a fragrance o'er the bier.

Where is the mourner now, whose bosom bled
For kindred genius gone?-he too is dead!
Turn to the scenes of mimic life, there view

The characters our young Menander drew :

Caprice in all her wayward fits display'd,
Folly in all her nicer shades portray'd;
The testiness of age-the soldier's sense-
The maiden's sweet discourse-Love's eloquence;
The lively wife, not quite by fashion spoil'd;
The smooth artificer of mischief foil'd;

The generous rake, for, lingering near his heart,
His better genius would not yet depart ;—
These, true to nature, still adorn our stage,
Or, in his calm retreat, amuse the sage;
These, like the gems of rarer worth are prized,
When those of transient value are despised.

In senates (there his talents shone confest),
As wit delighted, passion storm'd the breast.
The mind, with taste, sense, judgment, feeling fraught,
Seem'd to be blest by more than human thought!
Hence burning words, for freedom gave the choice,
The lightning of his eye, the magic of his voice!

When social mirth beam'd forth in every eye,
His was the lively jest, the keen reply,
The "flow of soul," Wit season'd high the song,
While playful Fancy drove old Time along.

Ye noble few, whose memories ponder o'er
His cheerful smile, his wit's unfailing store

Bright to the last, how graceful are your tears!
They tell of what he was in happier years.
The friend, whose genius shed its vivid ray
Far from your hearts to drive life's cares away—
The gay companion, sharers in whose mirth
You had forgot that sorrow dwelt on earth.

Ye fair, who knew his elegance of mind,
His soul, still breathing in the verse refin'd;
His purity of heart for her he loved,

(Her fondness by the bitterest trial proved)—
While in your hearts the soft affections live,
His faults, whate'er they were, you must forgive.
And you, you all, whom many a sprightly scene
Waking applause, shall teach what he has been;
Who still revere the patriot, love the bard,
From Envy's blight his sacred memory guard!
While Glory, circling round his cold, pale urn,
By Fancy watch'd, shall undefiled burn.

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