ravish’d with thy song: 
     Not all the gifts that art and nature gave,
     Could save thee, lovely Nessy! from the grave. 
     Too early lost! from friendship’s bosom torn,
     Oh might I tune thy lyre, and sweetly mourn
     In strains like thine, when beauteous Margaret’s[A] fate
     Oppress’d thy friendly heart with sorrow’s weight;
     Then should my numbers flow, and laurels bloom
     In endless spring around fair Nessy’s tomb.
[A] Alluding to some elegant lines, by the deceased, on the death of a
female friend.

[36] The following appears to have been written by Mr. P. Heywood on the
day that the sentence of condemnation was passed on him.
     ——­Silence then
     The whispers of complaint,—­low in the dust
     Dissatisfaction’s daemon’s growl unheard. 
     All—­all is good, all excellent below;
     Pain is a blessing—­sorrow leads to joy—­
     Joy, permanent and solid! ev’ry ill,
     Grim death itself, in all its horrors clad,
     Is man’s supremest privilege! it frees
     The soul from prison, from foul sin, from woe,
     And gives it back to glory, rest, and God! 
     Cheerly, my friends,—­oh, cheerly! look not thus
     With Pity’s melting softness!—­that alone
     Can shake my fortitude—–­all is not lost. 
     Lo!  I have gain’d on this important day
     A victory consummate o’er myself,
     And o’er this life a victory,—­on this day. 
     My birthday to eternity, I’ve gain’d
     Dismission from a world, where for a while,
     Like you, like all, a pilgrim, passing poor,
     A traveller, a stranger, I have met
     Still stranger treatment, rude and harsh!  I so much
     The dearer, more desired, the home I seek,
     Eternal of my Father, and my God! 
     Then pious Resignation, meek-ey’d pow’r,
     Sustain me still!  Composure still be mine. 
     Where rests it?  Oh, mysterious Providence
     I Silence the wild idea.—­I have found
     No mercy yet—­no mild humanity,
     With cruel, unrelenting rigour torn,
     And lost in prison—­lost to all below! 
And the following appears to have been written on the day of the king’s
pardon being received. 
     —­Oh deem it not
     Presumptuous, that my soul grateful thus rates
     The present high deliv’rance it hath found;—­
     Sole effort of Thy wisdom, sov’reign Pow’r,
     Without whose knowledge, not a sparrow fells! 
     Oh I may I cease to live, ere cease to bless
     That interposing hand, which turn’d aside—­
     Nay, to my life and preservation turn’d,—­
     The fatal blow precipitate, ordain’d
     To level all my little hopes in dust,
     And give me—­to the grave.

[37] With which the Editor, at his request, was favoured at the time.