Genius was his; whose various rays Illum'd with joy the social hours, Nor less his daring spirit sought The depths of learning's ancient store; Or paus'd o'er nature's secret thought, Or soar'd in fame's sublimer lore. But most shall friendship love to trace The scenes, with liberal mirth entwin'd; What streams of wit! what flowing grace! What sparkling sense! what cloudless mind! Oft has declin'd the midnight star, Yet seem'd the parting hour too near; And oft the breezy morn, afar, Caught the loud laugh, or generous tear. But all is past-beneath the sod Low lies the Poet's weary head: His grief-worn soul has rest in God; Bright-rob'd, in glory, ere it fled. Nor bitter be the tears, that flow In silence round his wintry urn; When sleep the Brave-'tis honour's sleep; And chase the darkness from his tomb. The dreams of wealth shall pass away, The following Tributary Lines appeared in the "Charleston Courier," soon after the death of MR. PAINE. “Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay." WEEP now, ye Muses, let your sorrows flow, For PAINE, the pride of minstrelsy, lies low; His harp is broken, and his lyre unstrung, If wit or genius had the power to save Their great possessor from the darksome grave; Who his deserted station can supply, And fill the foremost ranks of Poesy? For every noble quality renowned, And with the choicest gifts of Nature crowned: Yes; while the noble fame of Moore shall last, COLUMBIA'S BARD. WHERE yon willow's boughs entwining Cast a shadow o'er the plain, In her classic shades reclining, Science mourns the loss of PAINE. Columbia's Bard! O'er his tomb the muses weep, Where, shrin'd in earth, his ashes sleep! Never! shall his tuneful numbers Charm the list'ning ear again! Cold and silent, where he slumbers, Genius weeps the fate of PAINE. Columbia's Bard! "Son of Song!" thy lay is o'er, The festive hall resounds no more! "To-morrow may the trav❜ler come, He, who has heard the Poet's strain, His foot may press the grassy tomb," Unconscious 'tis the bed of PAINE. Columbia's Bard! Hark! the hollow night-breeze sighs, Where, wrapped in death, the Poet lies! Haste thee, Spring! to deck thy bowers, Columbia's Bard! May he, who bears his father's name, |