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

Deep in yon bed of whispering reeds
Thy airy harp shall now be laid!
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.
COLLINS.

WHEN THOMSON'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 dress'd,
And Summer rent her flow'ry vest;
Sad Nature caught th' Æolian strain,
And bade it echo through the plain;
And Fate proclaim'd, no daring hand
Should THOMSON'S sacred harp command;
While COLLINS 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 confess'd,
And dazzled reason sunk oppress'd:
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 JANE !