Bids haggard Winter, in her drear sojourn,
Tear the dim foliage from her drizzling urn,
With sickly yew unfragrant cypress twine,
And hang the dusky wreath round honor's shrine.
Bids steel-clad valour chace his dove-like bride,
Enfeebling mercy, from his awful side;
Where long she sat, and check'd the ardent rein,
As whirl'd his chariot fer-li embattled plain;
Gilded with sunny smile her April tear,

Rais'd her white arm and stay'd the uplifted [car,

spear

Then, in her place, bids vengeance mount the And glut with gore th'insatiate dogs of war! With one pale hand the bloody scroll he rears, And bids his nations blot it with their tears; And one, extended o'er th' Atlantic wave, Points to his Andrè's ignominious grave!

+ Bloody Scroll.-The Court-Martial decree, signed at Tappan, for Major Andre's execution.

And shall the Muse, that marks the solemn

scene,

"As busy fancy lifts the veil between,"

Refuse to mingle in the awful train,

Nor breathe with glowing zeal the votive strain?
From public fame shall admiration fire

The boldest numbers of her raptur'd lyre
To hymn a stranger ?-And with ardent lay
Lead the wild mourner round her Cook's morai,
While Andrè fades upon his dreary bier,
And *Julia's only tribute is her tear?
Dear, lovely youth! whose gentle virtues stole
Thro' friendship's soft'ning medium on her soul!
Ah no!-with every strong resistless plea,
Rise the recorded days she pass'd with thee;
While each dim shadow of o'erwhelming years,
With eagle-glance reverted, memory clears.

* Julia.-The name by which Mr. Andrè addressed the Author in his correspondence with her.

Belov'd companion of the fairest hours That rose for her in joy's resplendent bow'rs, How gaily shone on thy bright morn of youth The Star of Pleasure, and the Sun of Truth! Full from their source descended on thy mind Each gen'rous virtue, and each taste refin❜d. Young Genius led thee to his varied fane,

Bade thee ask tall his gifts, nor ask in vain ; Hence novel thoughts, in ev'ry lustre drest Of pointed wit, that diamond of the breast; Hence glow'd thy fancy with poetic ray, Hence music warbled in thy sprightly lay; And hence thy pencil, with his colours warm, Caught ev'ry grace, and copied ev'ry charm,

All his gifts.-Mr. Andrè had conspicuous talents for Poetry, Music, and Painting. The news-papers mentioned a satiric poem of his upon the Americans, which was supposed to have stimulated their barbarity towards him. Of his wit and vivacity, the letters subjoined to this work afford ample proof.-They were addressed to the Author by Mr. Andrè when he was a youth of eighteen.

Whose transient glories beam on beauty's cheek,
And bid the glowing ivory breathe and speak.
Blest pencil! by kind fate ordained to save
Honora's semblance from her *early grave,
Oh! while on +Julia's arm it sweetly smiles,
And each lorn thought, each long regret be-
guiles,
[spell,
Fondly she weeps the hand, which form'd the
Now shroudless mould'ring in its earthy cell!

But sure the youth, whose ill-starr'd passion With all the pangs of inauspicious love, [strove

* Early grave.-Miss Honora S- to whom Mr. Andrè's attachment was of such singular constancy, died in a consumption a few months before he suffered death at Tappan. She had married another gentleman four years after her engagement with Mr. Andrè had been dissolved by parental authority.

Julia's arm.-Mr. Andrè drew two miniature pictures of Miss Honora S on his first acquaintance with her at Buxton, in the year 1769, one for himself, the other for the author of this poem.

Full oft deplor'd the fatal art that stole

The jocund freedom of its master's soul.

While with nice hand he mark'd the living

grace,

And matchless sweetness of Honora's face,

Th' enamour'd youth the faithful traces blest, That barb'd the dart of beauty in his breast; Around his neck th' enchanting Portrait hung, While a warm vow burst ardent from his tongue, That from his bosom no succeeding day,'

No chance should bear that talisman away.

*'Twas thus Apelles bask'd in beauty's blaze, And felt the mischief of the stedfast gaze; Trac'd with disordered hand Campaspe's charms, And as their beams the kindling canvas warms,

'Twas thus Apelles.-Prior is very elegant upon this circumstance in an Ode to his friend, Mr. Howard, the Painter.