TO A FLY.

Busy, bustling, buzzing Fly,
Which is happiest, you or I?
Ever roving, like the bee,
Is the merry lark more free
When to heav'n he soars and sings,
While the vocal woodland rings,
Answering from each dewy thorn
His sweet welcome to the morn?
Constant to the wedded state,

He marries in a hedge his mate-
Who shall count the num'rous fair
Of thy harems in the air?
He the Strephon of a bough,
Of ev'ry room the Juan thou!

Little costs your slender meal,
All you eat and drink you steal!
Banqueting on ev'ry dish
Gratis, whether fowl or fish.
Round my nectar'd goblet's brim
Slow you creep with cautious limb,

Get entangled with the sweet!

Round my nose on rapid wing

First you buzz, and then you sting!
Then to Celia's cheek repair,
Seek a soft asylum there,
In her auburn tresses skip,
Taste the nectar of her lip,
Bask in the sunshine of her
With all th' effront'ry of a Fly!—
Which is happiest, you or I?

Child of liberty and sport,

eye,

Who shall say thy time is short?
Short indeed thy transient span
To the droning life of man;
Yet each minute is an age

In thy hist'ry's tiny page!
Spring's delightful verdant shoots,
Summer's blossoms, Autumn's fruits,
Fair and glorious to the eye,
Have no longer date, but die.

May no urchin, imp of sin!
E'er transfix thee with a pin;
Spider in his web enthrall,

And wrap thee in a filmy pall;

Poison in thy cup be found,

Or thou in pleasure's draught be drown'd.
With the Autumn's roseate hours,

With the sunshine and the flow'rs,
Sportive creature of a day,
Unmolested pass away.

ON REVISITING MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

ARE tears forbid ?-The torrent pour'd
Down sorrow's cheek for virtue's doom,
Is surely not by heav'n abhorr'd—
'Tis soothing to the spirit's gloom--
David his Absalom deplor'd,

And Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb!

Yes, there's a holy balm in tears

That heals the heart as soon as shed;
Heav'n to a spot unseen for years
In mercy hath my footsteps led;
How calm the solitude appears,

How sweet the mem'ry of the dead.

ON REVISITING MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 335

My Sire, ere winter's chilling frost
Thy debt was paid—the last and least-
The day I mourn'd a Father lost,

Was I enthrall'd, and thou releas'd;
Thou safe in port, I tempest-toss'd—
My cares begun, ere childhood ceas'd.

And how I plough'd the dang'rous sea
(My bark untravell'd o'er the deep,)
Is only known to Heav'n-and thee,
If guardian angels vigils keep
(Immortal spirits bless'd and free,)

*

O'er those they lov'd and left to weep.

* Of all superstitions-if in truth it can be called onethe doctrine of Guardian Angels is the most pleasing. To believe, that when death has separated us from a beloved object, we are not left wholly unprotected, but that the disembodied spirit still continues to watch over us, to guard us from impending evil, and perform the office of a ministering angel, in moments of difficulty and danger, is both rational and consoling: how beautifully has Tickell illustrated this idea, in his pathetic elegy upon Addison :

"Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou Guardian Genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill, a frail and feeble heart;
Led thro' the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more."

336

ON REVISITING MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

And her who lov'd and mourn'd thee best,

In rev'rend age we weeping bear, (Long parted) to thy place of rest

Her hope, faith, suff'ring, patience, pray'r― Age, spare my brow (a wearied guest)

Nor plant thy snows and wrinkles there.

The palsied frame, the hoary head,

The heart grown selfish, cold, and sear, More terrors than thy grassy bed

Strike to my soul, lov'd spot! for here My hop'd-for rest, were breath'd and shed My latest sigh, my earliest tear.