f mind, as ancient sages taught,— A never-dying flame,

Still shifts through matter's varying forms In every form the same;

Beware, lest in the worm you crush,

A brother's soul you find ;
And tremble lest thy luckless hand
Dislodge a kindred mind.

Or, if this transient gleam of day
Be all of life we share,
Let pity plead within thy breast
That little all to spare.

So may thy hospitable board

With health and peace be crown'd; And every charm of heartfelt ease Beneath thy roof be found,

So when destruction lurks unseen, Which men, like mice, may share, May some kind angel clear thy path, And break the hidden snare.

CHARACTERS.

O BORN to soothe distress and lighten care,
Lively as soft, and innocent as fair!
Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought
So rarely found, and never to be taught;
Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind,
The loveliest pattern of a female mind;
Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest,
With all her native heaven within her breast;
So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin,
But thinks the world without like that within;
Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless,
Her charity almost become excess.
Wealth may be courted, Wisdom be revered,
And Beauty praised, and brutal Strength be fear'd;
But Goodness only can affection move,
And love must owe its origin to love

Illam quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit,
Componit, furtim, subsequiturque decor.
TIBUL.

OF gentle manners, and of taste refined,
With all the graces of a polish'd mind;
Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke,
And from her lips no idle sentence broke.
Each nicer elegance of art she knew ;
Correctly fair, and regularly true.
Her ready fingers plied with equal skill
The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill;
So poised her feelings, so composed her soul,
So subject all to reason's calm control,—
One only passion, strong and unconfined,
Disturb'd the balance of her even mind
In every word, and look, and thought confest-
One passion ruled despotic in her breast,
But that was love; and love delights to bless
The generous transports of a fond excess.

HAPPY old mar. who stretch'd beneath the shade
Of large grown trees, or in the rustic porch
With woodbine canopied, where linger yet
The hospitable virtues, calm enjoy'st
Nature's best blessings all;—a healthy age
Ruddy and vigorous, native cheerfulness,
Plain-hearted friendship, simple piety,
The rural manners and the rural joys
Friendly to life. O rude of speech, yet rich
In genuine worth, not unobserved shall pass
Thy bashful virtues! for the muse shall mark,
Detect thy charities, and call to light
Thy secret deeds of mercy; while the poor,
The desolate, and friendless, at thy gate,
A numerous family, with better praise
Shall hallow in their hearts thy spotless name

SUCH were the dames of old heroic days,
Which faithful story yet delights to praise ;
Who, great in useful works, hung o'er the loom,-
The mighty mothers of immortal Rome:
Obscure, in sober dignity retired,

They more deserved than sought to be admired;
The household virtues o'er their honour'd head
Their simple grace and modest lustre shed:
Chaste their attire, their feet unused to roam,
They loved the sacred threshold of their home,
Yet true to glory, fann'd the generous flame,
Bade lovers, brothers, sons aspire to fame;
In the young bosom cherish'd Virtue's seed,
The secret springs of many a godlike deed.
So the fair stream in some sequester'd glade
With lowly state glides silent through the shade,
Yet by the smiling meads her urn is blest,
With freshest flowers her rising banks are drest,
And groves of laurel by her sweetness fed,
High o'er the forest lift their verdant head.

Is there whom genius and whom taste adorn
With rare but happy union; in whose breast
Calm, philosophic, thoughtful, largely fraught
With stores of various knowledge, dwell the

powers

That trace out secret causes, and unveil
Great Nature's awful face? Is there whose houra
Of still domestic leisure breathe the soul
Of friendship, peace, and elegant delight
Beneath poetic shades, where leads the muse
Through walks of fragance, and the fairy groves
Where young ideas blossom ?—Is there one
Whose tender hand, lenient of human woes,
Wards off the dart of death, and smooths the couch
Of torturing anguish? On so dear a name
May blessings dwell, honour and cordial praise:
Nor heed he be a brother to be loved.

CHAMPION of Truth, alike through Nature's field,
And where in sacred leaves she shines reveal d,-
Alike in both, eccentric, piercing, bold.
Like his own lightnings, which no chains can

hold;

Neglecting caution, and disdaining art,
He seeks no armour for a naked heart:-
Pursue the track thy ardent genius shows,
That like the sun illumines where it goes.

Travel the various map of Science o'er,
Record past wonders, and discover more ;
Pour thy free spirit o'er the breathing page,
And wake the virtue of a careless age.
But O forgive, if touched with fond regret
Fancy recalls the scenes she can't forget,
Recalls the vacant smile, the social hours
Which charm'd us once, for once those scenes
were ours!

And while thy praises through wide realms extend,
We sit in shades, and mourn the absent friend.
So where th' impetuous river sweeps the plain,
Itself a sea, and rushes to the main ;
While its firm banks repel conflicting tides,
And stately on its breast the vessel glides;
Admiring much the shepherd stands to gaze,
Awe-struck, and mingling wonder with his praise;
Yet more he loves its winding path to trace
Through beds of flowers, and Nature's rural face,
While yet a stream the silent vale is cheer'd,
By many a recollected scene endear'd,
Where trembling first beneath the poplar shade
He tuned his pipe, to suit the wild cascade.

A mass of heterogeneous matter,
A chaos dark, nor land nor water;-
New books, like new-born infants, stand,
Waiting the printer's clothing hand;-
Others, a motley ragged brood,
Their limbs unfashion'd all, and rude,
Like Cadmus' half-form'd men appear;
One rears a helm, one lifts a spear,
And feet were lopp'd and fingers torn
Before their fellow limbs were born;
A leg began to kick and sprawl
Before the head was seen at all,
Which quiet as a mushroom lay
Till crumbling hillocks gave
way;
And all, like controversial writing,
Were born with teeth, and sprung up fighing
"But what is this," I hear you cry,
'Which saucily provokes my eye?"—
A thing unknown, without a name,
Born of the air and doom'd to flame.

ON A LADY'S WRITING.

HER even lines her steady temper show,

R PRIESTLEY'S STUDY

A MAP of every country known,
With not a foot of land his own.

A list of folks that kick'd a dust

On this poor globe, from Ptol. the First;
He hopes, indeed it is but fair,-
Some day to get a corner there.
A group of all the British kings,
Fair emblem! on a packthread swings.
The fathers, ranged in goodly row,
A decent, venerable show,
Writ a great while ago, they tell us,
And many an inch o'ertop their fellows.
A Juvenal to hunt for mottoes;
And Ovid's tales of nymphs and grottoes.
The meek-robed lawyers, all in white;
Pure as the lamb,-at least to sight.
A shelf of bottles, jar and phial,
By which the rogues he can defy all,-
All fill'd with lightning keen and genuine,
And many a little imp he'll pen you in;
Which, like Le Sage's sprite, let out
Among the neighbours makes a rout;

Brings down the lightning on their houses,

And kills their geese, and frights their spouses.

A rare thermometer, by which

He settles to the nicest pitch,

The just degrees of heat, to raise

Strong as her judgment, easy as her air;
Correct though free, and regular though fair:
And the same graces o'er her pen preside,
That form her manners and her footsteps guide

ON THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains,
She moves our envy who so well complains;
In vain has proud oppression laid her low,
So sweet a garland on her faded brow.
Now, Auburn, now absolve impartial fate,
Which if it made thee wretched, makes thee grest
So, unobserved, some humble plant may bloom,
Till crush'd it fills the air with sweet perfume;
So, had thy swains in ease and plenty slept,
Thy poet had not sung, nor Britain wept.
Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay,
Unhonour'd genius, and her swift decay;
O patron of the poor! it cannot be,
While one-one poet yet remains like thee!
Nor can the muse desert our favour'd isle,
Till thou desert the muse and scorn her smile

Sermons, or politics, or plays.

Papers and books, a strange mix'd olio,

From shilling touch to pompous folio;

Answer, remark, reply, rejoinder,

Fresh from the mint, all stamp'd and coin'd here
Like new-made glass, set by to cool,
Before it bears the workman's tool.

A blotted proof-sheet, wet from Bowling.
-"How can a man his anger hold in ?”—
Forgotten rhymes, and college themes,
"Norm-eaten plans, and embryo schemes;—

HYMN TO CONTENT.

.....natura beatis Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti. CLAUDIAN

O THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul
And smooth unalter'd brow

40

O come, in simple vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat, O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky, Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years, Fair opening through this vale of tears

A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet :
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou, O nymph retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose, and violet blossom round,

And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour

I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn friendly to the muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And every storm is laid ;-
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whispering through the shade.

THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING.

Illic indocto prisaum se exercuit arcu;
Hei mihi quam dos nunc habet ille manus!
TIBUL.

WHEN Cupid, wanton boy! was young,
His wings unfledged, and rude his tongue,
He loiter'd in Arcadian bowers,
And hid his bow in wreaths of flowers;

• Addressed to the Author of Essays on Song-writing.

Or pierced some fond unguarded heart
With now and then a random dart,
But heroes scorned the idle boy,
And love was but a shepherd's toy.
When Venus, vex'd to see her child
Amid the forests thus run wild,
Would point him out some nobler game
Gods and godlike men to tame.
She seized the boy's reluctant hand,
And led him to the virgin band,
Where the sister muses round
Swell the deep majestic sound;
And in solemn strains unite,
Breathing chaste, severe delight;
Songs of chiefs and heroes old,
In unsubmitting virtue bold':
Of even valour's temperate heat,
And toils to stubborn patience sweet;
Of nodding plumes sad burnish'd arms
And glory's bright terrific charms.

The potent sounds like lightning dart
Resistless through the glowing heart;
Of power to lift the fixed soul
High o'er Fortune's proud control;
Kindling deep, prophetic musing;
Love of beauteous death infusing;
Scorn, and unconquerable hate
Of tyrant pride's unhallow'd state.
The boy abash'd, and half afraid,
Beheld each chaste immortal maid:
Pallas spread her Egis there;
Mars stood by with threatening air;
And stern Diana's icy look

With sudden chill his bosom struck.

'Daughters of Jove, receive the child,' The queen of beauty said, and smiled ;Her rosy breath perfumed the air, And scatter'd sweet contagion there Relenting Nature learn'd to languish, And sicken'd with delightful anguish "Receive him artless yet and young; Refine his air, and smooth his tongue : Conduct him through your favourite bowe Enrich'd with fair perennial flowers, To solemn shades and springs that lie Remote from each unhallow'd eye; Teach him to spell those mystic names That kindle bright immortal flames : And guide his young unpractised feet To reach coy Learning's lofty seat." Ah, luckless hour! mistaken maids, When Cupid sought the muses' shades. Of their sweetest notes beguiled, By the sly insiduous child; Now of power his darts are found Twice ten thousand times to wound. Now no more the slacken'd strings Breathe of high immortal things, But Cupid tunes the Muse's lyre To languid notes of soft desire. In every clime, in every tongue, "Tis love inspires the poet's song. Hence Sappho's soft infectious page; Monimia's wo; Othello's rage; Abandon'd Dido's fruitless prayer; And Eloisa's long despair;

The garland, blest with many a vow,

For haughty Sacharissa's brow;

And wash'd with tears, the mournful verse
That Petrarch laid on Laura's hearse.
But more than all the sister choir,
Music confess'd the pleasing fire.
Here sovereign Cupid reign'd alone;
Music and song were all his own.
Sweet as in old Arcadian plains,

The British pipe has caught the strains :
And where the Tweed's pure current glides,
Or Liffy rolls her limpid tides;

Or Thames his oozy waters leads
Through rural bowers or yellow meads,-
With many an old romantic tale

Has cheer'd the lone sequester'd vale;
With many a sweet and tender lay
Deceived the tiresome summer day.
"Tis yours to cull with happy art

Each meaning verse that speaks the heart;
And fair array'd, in order meet,

To lay the wreath at Beauty's feet.

The earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade Protects thy modest blooms

From his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short:-The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For O, not all that Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,

Can aught for thee atone.

Fair Spring! whose simplest crise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.

Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whose powerful voice

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding wind,-
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thine own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favoured youth

That prompts their whisper'd sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores,-those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds; And silent dews that swell

The milky ear's green stem,

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

GOD of my life! and Author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name, to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere,
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Are equal all,-for all are nothing here.
Which nature's works through all their parts
proclaim.

I feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;
As by a charm, the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.

But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust.
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softest cry,
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a silent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give;
Accept the vow, and bi the suppliant live:
From each terrestrial bondage set me free;
Still every wish that centres not in thee;
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.

If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads
By living waters, and through flowery meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene

O teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart,-Beware!
With caution let me hear the syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.
If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray,

And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye, Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfined O'er all this field of glories; spacious field, And worthy of the Master: he, whose hand With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile

Still let my steady soul thy goodness see,

And with strong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Resign'd to die, or resolute to live;
Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name, emblazon'd high
With golden letters on th' illumined sky;
Nor less the mystic characters I see
Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree;
In every leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears control :
Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms;
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then when the last, the closing hour, draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state:
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph, and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to Thee, in Thee to die.

A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. "Tis past! the sultry tyrant of the south Has spent his short-lived rage; more grateful hours Move silent on; the skies no more repel The dazzled sight, but with mild maiden beams Of temper'd lustre court the cherish'd eye To wander o'er their sphere; where hung aloft Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns Impatient for the night, and seems to push Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines E'en in the eye of day; with sweetest beam Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks. The shadows spread apace; while meeken'd Eve, Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires Through the Hesperian gardens of the west, And shuts the gates of day. "Tis now the hour When Contemplation from her sunless haunts, The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth Of unpierced woods, where wrapt in solid shade She mused away the gaudy hours of noon, And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun, Moves forward; and with radiant finger points To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine, Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether One boundless blaze; ten thousand trembling fires,

To public gaze, and said, “Adore, O man!
The finger of thy God." From what pure we.ls
Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn,
Are all these lamps so fill'd? these friendly lar ›■
For ever streaming o'er the azure deep
To point our path, and light us to our home.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres!
And silent as the foot of Time, fulfil
Their destined courses: Nature's self is hush'd
And, but a scatter'd leaf, which rustics through
The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard
To break the midnight air; though the raised ear
Intensely listening, drinks in every breath.
How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise!
But are they silent all? or is there not

A tongue in every star, that talks with man,
And woos him to be wise? nor woos in vain :
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,
And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.
At this still hour the self-collected soul
Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there
Of high descent, and more than mortal rank;
An embryo god ; a spark of fire divine,
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun,-
Fair transitory creature of a day!-

Has closed his golden eye, and wrapped in shades
Forgets his wonted journey through the east.

Ye citadels of light, and seats of gods!
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul,
Revolving periods past, may oft look back
With recollected tenderness on all

The various busy scenes she left below,
Its deep-laid projects, and its strange events,
As on some fond and doating tale that sooth'd
Her infant hours-O be it lawful now
To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts,
And with mute wonder and delighted awe
Approach your burning confines. Seized in

thought,

On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail,
From the green borders of the peopled Earth,
And the pale Moon, her duteous fair attendant;
From solitary Mars; from the vast orb
Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk
Dances in ether like the lightest leaf;
To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system,
Where cheerless Saturn midst his watery moons
Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp,
Sits like an exiled monarch: fearless thence
I launch into the trackless deeps of space,
Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear,
Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine
Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light
From the proud regent of our scanty day;
Sons of the morning, first-born of creation,
And only less than Him who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop
Or is there aught beyond? What hand unsee
Impels me onward through the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,