TO THE MEMORY OF THE LAMENTED MR. ROBERT HAWKE K——Y. Fair breaks the morn o'er yonder eastern skies, And bright'ning hills in pleasing prospect rise; But who can say, serene the day will end, The sun unclouded to its depth descend? Such dear departed infant was thy dawn, But gloom o'ershades the eve my hopes had drawn. Oh, thou! so late my child — my hope and pride, Who ever pleas'd, until the hour thou died, In mournful strains let now my sad heart tell, How I my darling boy could bid farewel! Angelic brightness! oh! look down and see What bitter pangs thy parent feels for thee. If thy pure shade can know what passes here; Accept the bursting sigh —— the gushing tear; —— And thou, so soon enthron'd in realms above, Forgive the murmurs of maternal love! Severely kind was that all-sacred day, When thy sweet form did ev'ry pain repay: Thy angel beauty did my hope engage, That thou shouldst bless my life, and chear my age; And thou, fair spirit, now remov'd from pain, Hast taught my humble heart, that life is vain: Yet, what is this that struggles at my breast For thee, my child? —— it will not be supprest: Thy spotless innocence —— thy soul so pure, From scorn could not thy guiltless clay secure. What tho' distinguish'd by that honor'd name Which gain'd to Britain glory, wealth and fame, That swift destruction o'er her foes has hurl'd, And liv'd the pride of an admiring world; What tho' descended from that soldier's breast, Who reigns a hero, worshipt in the East, Whose gallant deeds adorn Indostan's page, And thou the latest darling of his age; Did it avail thee, honor, worth, and grace, Gave brilliant lustre to thy mother's race, — A noble race, where all the virtues glow, Adorn'd with all that monarchs can bestow? Ah, no! tho' thus distinguish'd by thy birth, Thou wast deny'd a little spot of earth; Tho' soft humanity exalts her crest, And in Britannia reigns an honor'd guest, Yet cruel C—b—w-l refus'd a grave, The last retreat thy lovely form could crave But if unhallow'd was thy closing scene, Thou angel innocent art now serene; And tho' no costly marble e'er may grace Thy low-reposing bed — thy resting-place — Yet shall the fairest flowers the spot adorn, Cherish'd with purest tears of early morn; And angels guard thy guiltless sleeping clay, Till thou awakest to eternal day. How sweet thy rest! from ev'ry evil free! "The world is left to wretchedness and me." Oh, why! — but soft — be still, my murm'ring breast, — My little angel's gone to endless rest; With kindred spirits, far remote from pain, He waits the hour when we shall meet again.