When Royalty its gracious ray extends,
And princely pow'r with condescension blends,
All hearts must then the heav'n-born light adore,
That smile that chears, when Fortune smiles no more!

By sorrows and by fear, the heart deprest,
Shall feel its warmth more grateful than the rest;
And long the mem'ry of that hour retain,
When cold Oblivion spread its shade in vain!
Thus, mighty Prince! the Sun's resplendent beam,
The poor man's cordial, and the poet's theme!
Whilst o'er the noblest scene it casts its ray,

Here, in this bower, greenest of summer nooks,
The wild Bee's mew, the Violet's hiding-place,
Listening the bickerings of two brawling brooks,
We sat, and watched them wrangle and embrace;
Till tired of this, one of her choicest books
I drew from forth its hold, which she 'gan trace,
But I could nothing read, save her fair face —
Its eyes, its smiles, and fond tale-telling looks —
Oh comment sweet, the poet's text excelling!
I heard her voice, but naught of what she said;
And all she spake in love, and all she read,

That Love when journeying to Delight should tire!
That Beauty, too, (both of celestial birth,)
Should faint and pine for wants that are of earth,
And which the body only doth require!
That souls which soar to heaven, and would wing higher,
Should be thus imped, in their divinest mirth,
By things to minds immortal nothing-worth,
And which clean spirits loathe as an alloying mire! —
These muttered thoughts, that baffled Bliss did frame,
My bosomed love half heard — and took for chiding
That which frail Nature, and not her, did blame;

(5,1) Verba mea auribus percipe, domine, intellege clamorem meum
Word þu min onfoh, wuldres ealdor,
and mid earum gehyr, ece drihten
[I]ntnede uoci orationis mee, rex meus et deus meus
Ongyt mine clypunga cu├░um gereorde,
beheald min gebed holdum mode;
þu eart min cyning and eac ece god
(5,2) Quoniam ad te orabo: Domine, mane exaudies uocem meam.
For├░on ic to ├░e, ece drihten,
so├░um gebidde, and ├░u symble gehyr
morgena gehwylce mine stefne
(5,3) Mane adstabo tibi et uidebo, quoniam non deus uolens iniquitatem tu es

Behold, the triumphing Sun looks forth again!
The angry clouds which murmured at his will,
O'ercome by his kind smile, have wept a rain
Of penitent tears, and the storm's gust is still,
We may now leave our leafy-dark retreat,
And shape our course as was our first intent; —
The grass is fresh and lusty, and our feet
Skim o'er't like fairies', leaving it unbent.
The wanton, busy-handed Zephyrs raise

Hail! led by science to explore,
P IOZZI ! welcome to our shore,
Thou ornament of female kind,
Above thy sex how far refin'd,
With ev'ry softer virtue grac'd,
Improv'd by knowledge and by taste!
Here came thy Johnson, but inclin'd
The saults believ'd unseen to find;
Could vulgar errors thus retain
A mind so vig'rous in their chain?
Mean prejudice and party-rage
Obscure the lustre of his page.
But thou, prepar'd with candid eye
More beauties than defects to spy,
The progress of the arts shalt view,

Hard by, there is a secret greenwood nook —
Haply by fairies formed, for the repose
And pleasure of their queen: — a silvery brook,
Reflecting all that overhangs it, flows
Musically by, with noise of many springs;
The young birds tenant it, and woo and pair,
And silent sit to hear the Thrush, who sings
His frequent song of summer-blytheness there.
'Twill soon be reach'd, if we use willing speed;
Then let us hence — making so little stir,
Our light steps shall not rouse the grasshopper.
I have a song to breathe — a book to read;

'Tis vain, my Soul, 'tis impious all,
The Human Lot to mourn,
That Life so soon must fleet away,
And Dust to Dust return.

Alas! from Death the Terrors fly,
When once 'tis understood;
'Tis Nature's Call, 'tis God's Decree,
And is, and must be good.

Wearied his Limbs with honest Toil,
And void of Cares his Breast,
See how the lab'ring Hind sinks down
Each Night to wholsom Rest.

No nauseous Fumes perplex his Sleep,
No guilty Starts surprise;
The Visions that his Fancy forms,
All free and chearful rise.

Oh Moon, it is a passionate delight
To pore upon thy beautiful wan face,
And watch thee treading thy lone way by night,
Like Psyche seeking her blind Love's embrace!
What art thou, fairest Vision? Thou dost seem
Sometimes a northern nymph, climbing the snows
Of her free mountains proudly. Awhile I deem
Thou art a mermaid, whose moist forehead glows
To see thy beauties mirrored, and dost dress
Thy golden tresses by the sheeny sea.
Sometimes I think thee a chaste shepherdess,
Tending thy white-fleeced flock on some lone lea.

Oh Nightingale, that poet sure was sad
Who called thee Sorrow's bird! Unto my ear,
(Familiar to her mournful voice, as 'twere
A fretful sister's,) thy saddest song seems glad
As the Lark's matin when the trees are clad —
As the blythe Cuckoo when white May is near —
Or any sound that maketh Delight mad,
And drains a passionate heart of its fond tear.
Let the dull-eared deem thee a melancholy
Bird and sorrowful, and misconceive thy song,
Heard in Night's silence the calm woods among:
Heed thine own song, and never note their folly;