NOT IN THE MANNER, BUT IN THE SPIRIT OF COLLINS .

When T HOMSON'S harp of charming tone
Giv'n to the favour'd bard alone,
(Its tuneful master snatch'd away),
'Midst whispering reeds impervious lay;
The winds awak'd its mournful swell,
The wood-nymphs join'd the solemn knell,
Her yellow locks mild Autumn tore,
Wild Winter mourn'd in mantle hoar.
Sweet Spring in weeping buds was drest,
And Summer rent her flow'ry vest;
Sad Nature-caught th' Æolian strain,
And bade it echo thro' the plain;
And Fate proclaim'd, no daring hand
Should T HOMSON'S sacred harp command:
While C OLLINS sooth'd the mourners round,
With magic lyre of dulcet sound:
But when the Bard by Arun's stream,
Indulg'd each sadly tender theme,
And with enchantment wild combin'd,
The countless " shadowy tribes of mind; "
Or wept o'er valour's early tomb,
Bedeck'd with wreaths of freshest bloom;
Or bade the pictur'd passions rise,
In fancy'd forms to human eyes, —
The fair creation rose confest,
And dazzled reason sunk opprest:
No more he feels the Muse inspire,
In slumber lay the magic lyre;
Again he lifts his languid eyes,
To wake its strain in vain he tries;
Then ere he sought th' Elysian plain,
Resign'd the magic lyre to J ANE !