Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats!
O charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets!

The self-same gale, that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.

Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,
Who write in blood the merits of your cause,
Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence,
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold, in Ætna's emblematic fires,
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!

Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain,
And tells you where ye have a right to reign,
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,
Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own.
Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue
Their only crime, vicinity to you!
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road;
At every step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth seems a garden in it's loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun;
And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn,
And Folly pays, resound at your return.
A calm succeeds-but Plenty, with her train
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again,
And years of pining indigence must show
What scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,)
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the gen'ral spoil,
Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok'd upon the plain,
And the sun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conqu❜ror's part;
And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say,
But Etnas of the suff'ring world ye sway?
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar,
To prove you there destroyers, as ye are.

O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle,
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile;
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;
Where Pow'r secures what. Industry has won ;
Where to succeed is not to be undone;
A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solac'd me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrance of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long;

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ❜d,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation ev'ry day beguil❜d,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nurs❜ry floor;
And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap;
'T is now become a hist'ry little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
That mem❜ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd
A thousand other themes, less deeply trac❜d.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes:
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.
Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin;

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee, to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense, play,
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ;-

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"*
And thy lov'd consort, on the dang'rous tide
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet-O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left.

FRIENDSHIP.

WHAT virtue, or what mental grace,
But men unqualified and base
Will boast it their possession?
Profusion apes the noble part
Of liberality of heart,

And dulness, of discretion.

If ev'ry polish'd gem we find
Illuminating heart or mind,

Provoke to imitation;

No wonder friendship does the same→
That jewel of the purest flame,
Or, rather, constellation.

No knave, but boldly will pretend
The requisites that form a friend,
A real and a sound one;
Nor any fool, he would deceive,
But proves as ready to believe,
And dream that he had found one.

* Garth,

Candid, and generous, and just,

Boys care but little whom they trust,
An errour soon corrected-

For who but learns, in riper years,
That man, when smoothest he appears,
Is most to be suspected?

But here again a danger lies,
Lest, having misapplied our eyes,
And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude
Friendship a false ideal good,
A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rare
Is yet no subject for despair;
Nor is it wise complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,
We sought, without attaining.

No friendship will abide the test,
That stands on sordid interest

Or mean self-love erected;
Nor such as may awhile subsist
Between the sot and sensualist,

For vicious ends connected.

Who seek a friend should come dispos'd T'exhibit, in full bloom disclos'd,

The graces and the beauties That form the character he seeks, For 't is a union that bespeaks

Reciprocated duties.

Mutual attention is implied,
And equal truth on either side,

And constantly supported:
'Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse
Another of sinister views,

Our own as much distorted.

But will sincerity suffice?
It is indeed above all price,

And must be made the basis;
But ev'ry virtue of the soul
Must constitute the charming whole,
All shining in their places.

A fretful temper will divide
The closest knot that may be tied,
By ceaseless sharp corrosion;
A temper passionate and fierce
May suddenly your joys disperse
At one immense explosion.
In vain the talkative unite
In hopes of permanent delight-
The secret just committed,
Forgetting it's important weight,
They drop, through mere desire to prate,
And by themselves outwitted.

How bright soe'er the prospect seems,
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams,
If envy chance to creep in;
An envious man, if you succeed,
May prove a dang'rous foe, indeed,
But not a friend worth keeping.

As envy pines at good possess❜d,
So jealousy looks forth distress'd

On good, that seems approaching,
And, if success his steps attend,
Discerns a rival in a friend,

And hates him for encroaching

Hence authors of illustrious name,
Unless belied by common fame,

Are sadly prone to quarrel,
To deem the wit a friend displays
A tax upon their own just praise,
And pluck each other's laurel,
A man renown'd for repartee
Will seldom scruple to make free
With friendship's finest feeling,-
Will thrust a dagger at your breast,
And say he wounded you in jest,

By way of balm for healing.

Whoever keeps an open ear
For tattlers, will be sure to hear
The trumpet of contention;
Aspersion is the babbler's trade,
To listen is to lend him aid,

And rush into dissension,

A friendship that, in frequent fits
Of controversial rage, emits

The sparks of disputation,

Like Hand in Hand insurance-plates, Most unavoidably creates

The thought of conflagration.

Some fickle creatures boast a soul
True as a needle to the pole,

Their humour yet so various

They manifest, their whole life through, The needle's deviations too,

Their love is so precarious.

The great and small but rarely meet
On terms of amity complete;

Plebeians must surrender,
And yield so much to noble folk,
It is combining fire with smoke,
Obscurity with splendour.

Some are so placid and serene,
(As Irish bogs are always green,)
They sleep secure from waking;
And are indeed a bog, that bears
Your unparticipated cares

Unmov'd, and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mix
Their het'rogeneous politics,

Without an effervescence,
Like that of salts with lemon-juice,
Which does not yet, like that, produce
A friendly coalescence.

Religion should extinguish strife,
And make a calm of human life;

But friends, that chance to differ

On points which God has left at large,
How freely will they meet and charge!
No combatants are stiffer.

To prove at last my main intent
Needs no expense of argument,
No cutting and contriving-
Secking a real friend, we seem
T'adopt the chymists' golden dream,
With still less hope of thriving.
Sometimes the fault is all our own,
Some blemish in due time made known,
By trespass or omission;
Sometimes occasion brings to light
Our friend's defect, long hid from sight,
And even from suspicion.

Then judge yourself, and prove your man As circumspectly as you can,

And, having made election, Beware no negligence of your's, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection.

That secrets are a sacred trust,
That friends should be sincere and just,
That constancy betits them,
Are observations on the case,
That savour much of common-place,
And all the world admits them.

But 't is not timber, lead, and stone,
An architect requires alone,

To finish a fine building-
The palace were but half complete,
If he could possibly forget

The carving and the gilding.

The man that hails you-Tom, or Jack,
And proves by thumps upon your back
How he esteems your merit,

Is such a friend, that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed,
To pardon or to bear it.

As similarity of mind,

Or something not to be defin'd,
First fixes our attention,
So manners decent and polite,
The same we practis'd at first sight,
Must save it from declension.

Some act upon this prudent plan, "Say little, and hear all you can,”

Safe policy, but hateful

So barren sands imbibe the show'r, But render neither fruit nor flow'r,

Unpleasant and ungrateful.

The man I trust, if shy to me,
Shall find me as reserv'd as he;
No subterfuge or pleading
Shall win my confidence again,
I will by no means entertain
A spy on my proceeding.

These samples-for, alas! at last
These are but samples, and a taste
Of evils yet unmention'd-
May prove the task a task indeed,
In which 't is much if we succeed,
However well-intention'd,

Pursue the search, and you will find
Good sense, and knowledge of mankind,
To be at least expedient,
And, after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast,
A principal ingredient.

The noblest friendship ever shown
The Saviour's history makes known,
Though some have turn'd and turn'd it,
And, whether being craz'd or blind,
Or seeking with a biass'd mind,

Have not, it seems, discern'd it.

O Friendship! if my soul forego
Thy dear delights, while here below;
To mortify and grieve me,
May I myself at last appear,
Unworthy, base, and insincere,
Or may my friend deceive me.

BOADICEA:

AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage, beneath the spreading oak,
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Ev'ry burning word he spoke,

Full of rage, and full of grief.

"Princess! if your aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'T is because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.
"Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

"Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny, that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

"Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they."

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending, as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but aweful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

"Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you."

VERSES

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute: From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man!
O, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word;
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial, endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.

My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?

O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compar'd with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection, at hand,

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest;

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

THE DIVERTING

HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN;

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A train-band captain eke was he,
Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,

All in a chaise and pair.