The flatten'd furges fmoothly fpread,
Deep filence keep,
And feem to fleep
Recumbent on their oozy bed;
With what a trance
The level glance,
Unbroken, fhoots along the feas!
Which tempt from shore
The painted oar ;
And ev'ry canvass courts the breeze!
When rushes forth
The frowning North
On blacken'd billows, with what dread
My fhudd'ring foul
And hears their roarings o'er my head!
THE rofe is fragrant, but it fades in time,
The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime.
White lilies hang their heads and foon decay,
And whiter fnow melts rapidly away.
Such and fo with'ring is our blooming youth.
The Palmetto.-The Grampus.
LIKE the tall palm it shoots its stately head;
From the broad top depending branches spread :
No knotty limbs the taper body bears:
High on each bough a single leaf appears;
Which shrivel'd in its infancy remains,
Like a clos'd fan, nor stretches wide its veins;
But, as the seasons in their circle run,
Opes its ribb'd furface to the nearer fun :
Beneath the shade the weary peasant lies,
Plucks the broad leaf, and bids the breezes rife :
Thus artificial zephyrs round him fly,
And mitigate the fever of the fky.
-WHEN enormous grampus, iffuing forth From the pale regions of the icy North,
Waves his broad tail and opes his ribbed mouth, And seeks on winnowing fin the breezy South;
From towns deferted rufh the breathlefs hofts,
Swarm round the hills, and darken all the coafts;
Boats follow boats along the fhouting tides,
And spears and jav'lins pierce his blubb'ry fides.
Now the bold failor, rais'd on pointed toe,
Whiris the wing'd harpoon on the flimy foe;
Quick finks the monster in his oozy bed,
The blood-stain'd furges circling o'er his head,
Steers to the frozen pole his wonted track,
And bears the iron tempeft on his back.
Lo, midnight from her ftarry reign
Looks awful down on earth and main,
The tuneful birds lie hufh'd in fleep,
With all that crop the verdant food,
With all that skim the cryftal flood,
Or haunt the caverns of the rocky deep.
No rushing winds difturb the tufted bowers:
No wakeful found the moonlight valley knows,
Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours,
And lulls the waving fcene to more profound
repofe.
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's
The lowing herd, the fheep-fold's fimple bell;
The pipe of early fhepherd, dim defcried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the univerfal grove.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough flope the ponderous waggon rings;
Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;
Slow tolls the village bell the drowsy hour ;
The partridge burfts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in fequefter'd bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from his aërial tour.
BEATTIE.
CF all the fprings within the mind
Which prompt her steps in fortune's maze,
From none more pleasing aid we find
Than from the genuine love of praise.
Not any partial private end
Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any pallion, virtue's friend,
So like to virtue's felf appears.
If praife with deep religious awe
From the fole perfect Judge be fought,
A nobler aim, a purer law,
Nor priest, nor bard, nor fage, hath taught.
With which in character the fame,
Tho' in a humbler sphere it lies,
I count that foul of human fame,
The fuffrage of the good and wife.
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