Kentucky Gazette And General Advertiser

"TO SOAR ALOFT ON FANCY'S WING."

[The following elegant verses, on the death of the Rev. P. W. Lusin, late Vicar General and Governor of the Diocese of Louisiana and the Floridas, which we copy from the Louisiana Gazette, will be read with considerable interest by those who have a taste for pastoral elegy.]

Courier.

His saltem accumulem doni et fungar inani

muere.

VIRGIL.

Ye shepherds! flock round in a throng
And attend to my sorrowful lays:
Disdain not, tho' tuneless, a song
That is sung in your Corydon's praise
For he was the meekest of swains:
But the meekest of swains now is gone
No more to re-visit these plains.
And with him all comfort has flown
As the young in the nest of the Love.
'Ere from the fond parents they part
As the fawns in the forest that rove,
So guileless was Corydon's heart!
Not the lamb newly wash'd in the rill,
Nor the flow'ret that waves in the wind
Nor the snow newly fall'n on the hill
Was purer than Corydon's mind
Affliction he ne'er could behold
But with pity his eyes would o'erflow
No tale of misfortune was told
But his breast with compassion would glow.
What shepherd who asked for relief
By Corydon e'er was denied?
What shepherd to solace his grief
On Corydon vainly relied?
The wants of each friend to relieve,
He oft parted with all but his crook,
Even when he had nothing to give,
Soft pity still beam'd in his look.
But who can with justice express
All the worth of that generous swain
They know it, who e'er felt distress,
And to Corydon vented their pain
The lambs that were left to his care
Wou'd the voice of their shepherd obey;
But a hireling contrived to ensnare
And craftily led them astray.
This hireling, as faithless as bold,
The kindest of masters forsook;
He forcibly enter'd the fold
And seized both the sheep and the crook.
In vain the good Corydon tried
By persuasion his lambs to recall
The intruder each artifice plied
To delude, yet deluded not all
Poor Corydon's grief to allay
The flower of his flock still were true
But alas! he soon saw with dismay
That the flow'r of his flock were but few
Alas! for the mitre and hand,
From which hung the vain emblem of pow'r
When th' usurper commanding a band
Of vile Africans, reigned for an hour.
And alas! for the fatal decree
That decided poor Corydon's doom!
No comfort since then did he see
But insensibly sunk to the tomb.
Then shepherds! flock round in a throng
And attend to my sorrowful lays,
Disdain not, tho' tuneless, a song
That is sung in your Corydon's praise.
For he was the gentlest of swains:
But the gentlest of swains now is gone
No more to re-visit these plains.
And with him all comfort has flown.