Sweet Ariel! Fancy's darling child,
Methinks I mark thy wand'rings wild,
As graceful in the Sylvan scene
Appears thy fair enchanting mien;
Soft “by the glimpses of the moon,”
It steals from night her horrors soon:
Not “making hideous”—like the form
Of wizard in the midnight storm;
But cheering, with a friendly power,
Ev'n Sorrow's dark sequester'd hour.
Such music to thy lute is given
As ev'n might suit the choir of Heaven!
For sweetly from its pliant strings
Celestial Peace its requiem brings,
And Virtue bids thro' ether float

Exalted Prince!—Let meaner souls than thine,
Seek with a borrow'd dignity to shine:
Superior minds enjoy the social hour,
Nor feel the weight—the arrogance of pow'r.

Thus Russia's mighty Czar, with pow'rs sublime,
To spread fair culture in a frozen clime,
With gen'rous purpose bade his honours sleep,
And toil'd for knowledge on the foaming deep:
The Sov'reign reign'd beneath a low disguise,
And burst resplendent on a nation's eyes.

Thus princely A LFRED , nobler than his lot,
Conceal'd his greatness in a herdsman's cot,

As here, alone, I muse — to Fancy's eye,
The former scenes of gaiety appear,
That fill'd the lively dancer's heart with joy,
When Chearfulness once held her vigils here.

Here the young lovers, link'd, as partners dear,
Together danc'd, or to a seat retir'd,
And, whilst the pow'r of Music charm'd the ear,
They whisper'd sweeter sounds, that Love inspir'd.

Now, Knowledge here her altar deigns to rear,
Adorn'd with all that Genius can bestow;
Her treasure she displays to win the Fair,
And fill their tender hearts with Virtue's glow.

On yonder verdant shrub behold the rose,
In balmy redolence, its bloom disclose;
The silky leaves of the clysian flow'r,
Reflect the glory of the noontide hour,
And, gently waving in the Summer's gale,
Warm'd by the sun, its richest scents exhale.
Around this perfect flow'r the rose-buds swell,
And promise future fragrance to the smell;
Beneath, green leaves the shapely branch adorn,
And seem to hide the finger-wounding thorn.
Ah! spare, ye passing youth, this tender bloom
Tho' tempted by its beauties and perfume,

O crusca, whosoe'er thou art,
Who sings in strains so plaintive sweet;
That e'en the sad despondent heart,
Feels provocation 'gain to beat!

Hear, gentle Bard, another's strains,
Who no fantastic passion feigns;
But who all melancholy sighs
With grief too great to vent in cries.
And Sorrow scorning aid from tears,
O Della! if thou e'er did'st love,
As numbers such as thine proclaim;
Is not the passion far above,
Say, ev'ry other tender slame;
And such as Crusca's breast reveres!

But why this question put to me?

May every wish thy parents breathe,
Thou sweetest; loveliest, boy be thine;
May hope and health their garlands wreathe,
And round thy brows the bright leaves twine.

And now I'll think thou art arrived
At that delightful smiling season,
When heaven, who form'd us, hath contriv'd
That we should like each thing but reason.

And I'll suppose that thou art young,
And I'll suppose that I am old,
And age unkind, hath o'er me flung
His wint'ry mantle, chill and cold.

And, oh! if such a wight as me

AN ELEGY .

When Sensuality the passions sways,
Then sacred Reason's voice is heard no more;
Embruted Man his appetites obeys,
Whilst tender friends his wretched state deplore.

Debas'd by Vice, alas! his tainted heart
Becomes a votary to Pleasure's charms,
'Till fierce Disease, deriding human art,
With thoughts of Death the wretched mind alarms.

The wanton nymph, whose eye's electric fire,

How poor is Grandeur, and how vain is Power,
When awful Death invades the dismal hour!
The Miser's key must then resign its trust,
And Pleasure's garland withers in the dust!
But Evergreens there are, of lasting bloom,
Which ev'n shall grace the dark funereal gloom:
Ev'n round the silent tomb they glow divine,
And T, their shade shall honour thine.
There gentle Charity shall rear her balm,
Beneath Devotion's ever-sacred palm;
And Friendship too, shall plant her myrtles sweet,
Which yield their fragrance in the calm retreat.

Inscribed to the Inbabitants of N EWRY .

Now, when cold Winter's wind and chilling snows
Come, dreadful to the Poor, the pensive breast
Feels Pity inly thrilling at their woes,
By their combin'd calamities distress'd.

When the sad widow, with her infant train,
Stands shiv'ring at the rich man's lofty door,
What bosom can its sympathy restrain? —
What hand would not relieve the suppliant poor?

Remember the Bard, though mute is his lyre,
And wither'd for ever the hands that he flung
O'er its chords, while with more than a patriot's fire,
He the triumphs of freedom and bravery sung.
He had strings too for beauty, love, virtue, and truth,
That shone ever bright, and as free from decay,
As those lines which the Easterns beheld in their youth,
And gaz'd on in age, as their souls fled away.

Remember the Bard, like the Huma sublime,
He ne'er sinks to the earth, so exalted his flight;
But winging his way through sweet Poesy's clime,