When Dryden's fool, ‘unknowing what he sought,’
His hours in whistling spent, ‘for want of thought,’
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence;
Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
The offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

Why, lovely LELIA, so depress'd?
With wonted Smiles your Eyes adorn;

Drive gloomy Sorrow from your Breast,
And shine out, beauteous, as the Morn.

The fair PENDARVIS bid me try,
For you to tune my Lyre again,
To your lov'd Presence instant fly,
And sooth you with some joyous Strain.

But if PENDARVIS, born to please,
Does in her native Province fail,
Nor can your anxious Bosom ease;
Alas! how should my Muse prevail?

Shall Heav'n, that form'd thee wond'rous fair,
Behold thee thus repining lie?
Dependent on that Guardian Care,

Full many a noble-minded man I know,
(As numerous here as in remoter lands),
Our pride, our praise, near whom old glory stands,
Binding past—future laurels round their brow—
To whom shall I direct the garland now?
I may not choose among those generous bands:—
Yet one there is whom Slava's hearts and hands
Would crown—and with one knee of homage bow.
Favorite of all her races, and their priest!
Thine, quiet genius! thine the crown shall be,
Slavonia's glory shall encompass thee!
Thy name be heard—thy praise shall be confest,

I did not see you
As you ran past,
Yet for me your hurry
Must always last.
A flame where space
Forever calls,
The flight of an arrow
That never falls—
You are a motion
Over my mind.
The immobile darkness
Streaming behind
Backgrounds your swiftness.
I feel you run
As life would not let you,
Fairer than sun
Could ever paint you.
And with the flood
And fire of your going
You kindle my blood;
You warm me, then cool me
With continuous stride
Leaping into nothing
Like the wind at your side.

——H USH !
—With sudden gush
As from a fountain, sings in yonder bush
—The Hermit Thrush.

——Hark!
—Did ever Lark
With swifter scintillations fling the spark
—That fires the dark?

——Again,
—Like April rain
Of mist and sunshine mingled, moves the strain
—O'er hill and plain.

——Strong
—As love, O Song,
In flame or torrent sweep through Life along,
—O'er grief and wrong.

Soldier , rest! thy march is done;
Thou hast reached the camping ground:
Battles fought and victories won,
Thou a conqueror's wreath hast found.

Death has claimed thy form alone;
And thy spirit liveth still,
Working in diviner ways
After God the Maker's will.

Thou hast battled for the right,
Bravely fought and nobly fell,
Martyred in defence of truth,
Loved by thee so long and well.

Reverent is this tribute placed
By a loyal, stranger hand,
On this soldier's casket, one
Called to die for native land.

N OVEMBER ! thou art come again
With all thy gloom of fogs and rain,
Yet woe betide the wretch who sings
Of sadness borne upon thy wings.
The gloom that overcast my brow,
The whole year's gloom, depart, but now;
And all of joy I hear or see,
November! I ascribe to thee!

What shall I frame my life to gain?
Not Riches; lower mundane things
Spread wide their fickle treacherous wings,
And who pursues them strives in vain.

Nor Fame; for she fleets faster yet,
Or comes not ere the closing tomb
The sun of Glory sets in gloom,
And the world hastens to forget.

Nor Rank nor Honours. Were it best
Dowered of some weaker soul to live,
Or bear the jewel none can give
Deep in the heart, not on the breast?

Nor Pleasure; for her gains elude
The weary seeker's baffled eyes;
The wanton leaves him when she flies

The gloomy night is fleeing fast,
The morning star appears;
Its glowing rays a splendor cast
On morning's dewy tears.
Come, let us join in cheerful praises,
While Nature her sweet pæan raises;
The morning star appears.

Fair star! thy charms have ne'er declined
Since first thy beams were given,—
Like golden chains that firmly bind
The distant earth and heaven.
Oh, praise the Lord, as on the morning
When angels sang the lovely dawning
Of Bethlehem's star in heaven!

Let thousand voices swell the strain;
Let praises loudly ring;

With one black shadow at its feet,
The house through all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
And silent in its dusty vines:

A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.
But ‘Ave Mary,’ made she moan,
And ‘Ave Mary,’ night and morn,
And ‘Ah,’ she sang, ‘to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’

She, as her carol sadder grew,
From brow and bosom slowly down
Through rosy taper fingers drew