Of passion swelling with distress and pain,

To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops Of cordial Pleasure? Ask the faithful youth,

Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd

So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds

Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise

Of Care and Envy, sweet Remembrance soothes,

With Virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast,

And turns his tears to rapture. - Ask the crowd,

Which flies impatient from the village walk

To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below

The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the

coast

Some hapless bark; while sacred Pity melts

The gen'ral eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;

While ev'ry mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and, pointing where the waves

Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud,

As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms

For succor, swallow'd by the roaring surge,

As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down. O! deemest thou indeed

No kind endearment here by Nature giv'n

To mutual Terror and Compassion's tears?

No sweetly-swelling softness, which attracts,

O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs

The big distress? or wouldst thou then exchange

'Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot

Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,

And bears aloft his gold-invested front, And says within himself, "I am a king, And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of Woe

Intrude upon mine ear?"- The baleful dregs

Of these late ages, this inglorious draught Of servitude and folly, have not yet, Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world! Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame The native honors of the human soul, Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.

ON TASTE.

[From Pleasures of the Imagination.

SAY, what is Taste, but the internal pow'rs

Active and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning

sense

Of decent and sublime, with quick dis gust

From things deform'd, or disarrang'd, or gross

In species? This nor gems, nor stores of gold,

Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; But God alone, when first his active hand Imprints the sacred bias of the soul.

He, Mighty Parent! wise and just in all, Free as the vital breeze, or light of heav'n,

Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain

Who journeys homeward from a summer-day's

Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds

O'er all the western sky! Full soon, I

ween,

His rude expression, and untutor❜d airs, Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold

The form of Beauty smiling at his heart, How lovely! how commanding! But though Heav'n

In every breast hath sown these early seeds

Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, Without enliv'ning suns and genial

show'rs,

And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope

The tender plant should rear its blooming head,

Or yield the harvest promis'd in its spring.
Nor yet will ev'ry soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labor; or attend
His will, obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Diff'rent minds
Incline to diff'rent objects: one pursues

The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild; Another sighs for harmony and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires

The arch of heav'n, and thunders rock the ground;

When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,

And Ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky;

Amid the mighty uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakespeare looks abroad

From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs, All on the margin of some flow'ry stream, To spread his careless limbs, amid the cool

Of plantane shades, and to the list'ning deer

The tale of slighted vows and Love's disdain

Resounds, soft warbling, all the livelong day.

Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill

Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the

Of pageant Honor, can seduce to leave Those everblooming sweets, which from the store

Of Nature fair Imagination culls,
To charm th' enliven'd soul!

though not all

What

Of mortal offspring can attain the height Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state: Yet Nature's care to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,

The rural honors his. What'er adorns The princely dome, the column, and the arch,

The breathing marbles, and the sculptur'd gold,

Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring

Distils her dew, and from the silken

gem

Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the

hand

Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like

the morn.

Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wing;

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,

And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze

Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes

The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling

shade

Ascend, but whence his bosom can par take

Fresh pleasure unreproved.

O thou whose spirit most possess'd The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast! By all that from thy prophet broke, In thy divine emotions spoke! Hither again thy fury deal, Teach me but once like him to feel; His cypress wreath my meed decree, And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee.

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales;

O nymph reserved, while now the brighthair'd Sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With braid ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush'd, save where the weakeyed bat,

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

Now teach me, maid composed
To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale

May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp, The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day.

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,'

1 The water-nymphs, Naiads, are so crowned.

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;

Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;

And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest
Eve!

While summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves:

Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!

THE PASSIONS.

WHEN music, heavenly maid, was

young,

While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell,