"Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fix'd by Heav'n's decree,

That all the true delights of man
Should spring from Sympathy.

'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws Of nature we retain,

Our self-approving boson draws

A pleasure from its pain.

Thus grief itself has comforts dear,

The sordid never know;

And ecstasy attends the tear,

When virtue bids it flow.

For, when it streams from that

No bribes the heart can win,

pure source,

To check, or alter from its course

The luxury within.

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,
Who, if from labour eas'd,

Extend no care beyond themselves,

Unpleasing and unpleas'd.

Let no low thought suggest the pray's, Oh! grant, kind Heav'n, to me, Long as I draw ethereal air

Sweet Sensibility.

Where'er the heav'nly nymph is seen,

With lustre-beaming eye,

A train, attendant on their Queen,

(Her rosy chorus) fly.

The jocund Loves in Hymen's band,

With torches ever bright,

And gen'rous Friendship hand in hand,

With Pity's wat'ry sight.

The gentler virtues too are join'd,
In youth immortal warm,

The soft relations, which, combin'd,

Give life her ev'ry charm.

The Arts come smiling in the close,

And lend celestial fire,

The marble breathes, the canvas glows,

The Muses sweep the lyre.

"Still may my melting bosom cleave

To suff'rings not my own,

And still the sigh responsive heave,
Where'er is heard a groan,

So Pity shall take Virtue's part,

Her natural ally,

And fashioning my soften'd heart,

Prepare it for the sky."

This artless vow may Heav'n receive,

And you, fond maid, approve

So may your guiding angel give
Whate'er you wish or love.

So may the rosy-finger'd hours
Lead on the various year,

:

And ev'ry joy, which now is yours,

Extend a larger sphere.

And suns to come, as round they wheel,

1

Your golden moments bless,

With all a tender heart can feel,

TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL

ENEID, BOOK VIII. LINE 18.

THUS Italy was moved-nor did the chief Eneas in his mind less tumult feel.

On

every side his anxious thought he turns, Restless, unfixt, not knowing what to choose. And as a cistern that in brim of brass

Confines the crystal flood, if chance the sun
Smite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb,
The quiv'ring light now flashes on the walls,
Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof:
Such were the way'ring motions of his mind.
Twas night-and weary nature sunk to rest.
The birds, the bleating flocks were heard no more.
At length, on the cold ground, beneath the damp
And dewy vault, fast by the river's brink,
The Father of his country sought repose.