Genius was his; whose various rays

Illum'd with joy the social hours,
Or pour'd a full, impetuous blaze
Through all the Poet's magic powers.

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;
Still friendship's breast shall warmly glow,
Still love with holy reverence mourn.

When sleep the Brave-'tis honour's sleep;
When falls the Bard, his brilliant doom
Age after age shall memory keep,

And chase the darkness from his tomb.

The dreams of wealth shall pass away,
Nor leave a wreck of thought behind;
But deathless, GENIUS, is thy sway,
The immortal triumph of the mind.

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;
Ye, who inspired his ever tuneful breath,
Could not secure him from the shafts of death.

His harp is broken, and his lyre unstrung,
Who Moore's triumphant death and glory sung;
And he, who deck'd with laurel valor's tomb,
Now rests, alas! with Moore, in kindred gloom.

If wit or genius had the power to save

Their great possessor from the darksome grave;
Your much-lov'd offspring's loss we should not mourn,
Nor moisten, with our tears, his funeral urn.

Who his deserted station can supply,

And fill the foremost ranks of Poesy?
Vain is th' attempt our sorrows to restrain,
For we shall never view another PAINE.

For every noble quality renowned,

And with the choicest gifts of Nature crowned:
Shall not his strains succeeding Bards inspire,
And stamp their works with more than mortal fire.

Yes; while the noble fame of Moore shall last,
Not scandal's breath, nor envy's withering blast,
Shall dare, with impious power, attack his name,
Or, from his memory, snatch the wreaths of fame.

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,
Bid young Beauty dress the plain!
Let thy fairest, sweetest flowers,
Wreathe around the tomb of PAINE.

Columbia's Bard!

May he, who bears his father's name,
Possess his genius! merit all his fame!

THE

WORKS

OF

R. T. PAINE, JUN. ESQ.

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