Born to honours, ease, and wealth, See him sacrifice them all, Sacrificing even health, At his country’s glorious call. What reward for this remains, What, but poverty and chains! Hapless Fayette! ’midst thy error, How my soul thy worth reveres; Son of Freedom, tyrant’s terror, Hero of both hemispheres. What, alas! for thee remains, What, but poverty and chains! Thus with laurels on his brow, Belisarius begged for bread; Thus, from Carthage forced to go, Hannibal an exile fled: Fayette thus, at once sustains, Exile, poverty, and chains! Courage, child of Washington, Though thy fate disastrous seems, We have seen the setting sun Rise and shine with brighter beams; Thy country soon shall break thy chain, And take thee to her arms again. * * * * * * * * * _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._ * * * When the Author of the following Elegy finds it is committed to print, he will not, I am persuaded, be offended, after I remind him of the conversation we had some time since:--And also when he reflects on the injury he does the Public, by keeping any of his productions from their view. ELEGY Addressed to the Calliopean Society, on the Death of Doctor Joseph Youle. Within these walls let awful stillness reign: _Sorrow_, thy louder extacies restrain: Each sound that on the solemn scene would break Be hush’d----let Silence more emphatic speak. Ev’n thou, upon thy pensive lyre reclin’d, (Dark cypress with thy drooping laurel twin’d,) Our guardian Muse! let not a trembling note Through the still air in plaintive sweetness float; Save when Affliction’s deep collected sigh Low breathing in symphonious melody, With faint vibrations agitates the chords, While Friendship’s mourning voice our lot records. On the cold couch of death our brother sleeps;-- Chill o’er his grave the gale of midnight sweeps. Oh, Death! if ’tis thy glory to destroy The fairest opening bud of human joy; If ’tis thy boast severely to display And wide diffuse the terrors of thy sway, High o’er this grave thy proudest trophy rear, And tell with exultation _who lies here_. Ye whom _Philanthropy_ benignant guides, Ye in whose hearts fair _Piety_ presides, Children of genius, friends of _Science_, come, With silent step approach the hallow’d tomb.---- _He was your brother_----generous was his mind, Warm with benevolence to all mankind. Gently to raise affliction’s drooping head, To comfort sickness on the lonely bed, To lead the ignorant in virtue’s way, On the dark mind to pour instruction’s ray, The paths of science to extend and smooth, And wide diffuse the genial light of truth; These were his objects, these his noble pride; For these he labour’d, and for these he died.