into
the hall of mirth. But let him lead us where he will, we cheerfully
follow and always find ourselves with a sensible and tuneful
companion. I am half inclined to suspect that Mr. Lewis himself is the
concealed author. We know how he brilliantly travestied his own
ballad, Alonzo the Brave, and it is probable that in this collection
he is alter et idem.

[The poem follows.]

_Port Folio_, II-195, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso. Cf. p. 18.]

GRIM, KING OF THE GHOSTS,
OR THE DANCE OF DEATH.

_Port Folio_, II-199, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_. Cf. p. 18.]

ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED ONLY SON.
Translated from a Danish Inscription.
By T. CAMPBELL, Esq.

_Port Folio_, II-352, Nov. 1802, Phila.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, IN AUTUMN, 1801.

Hail, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf,
I love thee, drear and gloomy as thou art;
Not joyful Spring, like thee can soften grief,
Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart;
But in thy cheerless, solitary bower,
Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie,
When dusky Evening's melancholy hour
With boding clouds obscures the low'ring sky,
And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear
In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.

'Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year,
'Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn,
But absent friends--and _one_ than life more dear,
And joys departed, never to return!
O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows,
Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year,
And where the sun on curs'd Oppression glows,
Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear,
Thy gentle care--thy succour I implore;
O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.

Thou hears't my prayer--I feel thy holy flame--
And future joys in bright succession rise,
And mutual love and friendship--sacred name!
And home and all the blessings that I prize.
Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view
Each friend I love, and every scene most dear,
In forms more bright than ever painter drew,
Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear.
Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between,
Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene.