English

When the dear bliss we wont so long to prize,
And hope, the herald of unseen delight,
Pass, like the vivid meteor of the night,
Just seen, to tempt our steps where danger lies;
When hearts link'd in the dearest sympathies,
By unthought perfidy, are doom'd to sever;
Think'st thou the shock can break the thousand ties
That seem to bind as they would bind for ever?
Ah no! — what tender images will start,
To tell there was a time it was not so;
Young love is faithful, though a faithless heart

'Tis twelve o'clock in Possum Flat;
The cabbage steams, and bacon's fat;
The bread is made of last year's corn —
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The shadows lengthen north and south;
The water wells up in your mouth;
You're neither sober nor forlorn,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

A quiet falls, the smoke curls up
Like incense from a censor cup;
It makes you glad that you were born,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The cur, erstwhile stretched in a snore,

The silence of the golden afternoon
Is broken by the chatter of the jay.
What season finds him when he is not gay,
Light-hearted, noisy, singing out of tune,
High-crested, blue as is the sky of June?
'Tis autumn when he comes; the hazy air,
Half-hiding like a veil, lies ev'rywhere,
Full of the memories of summer soon
To fade; leaves, losing hold upon the tree,
Fly helpless in the wintry wind's unrest;
The goldenrod is burning low and fitfully;
The squirrel leaves his leafy summer rest,

Oh! hast thou ever wish'd to know
When most this varying world below
Is like the changeless heaven above,
In beauty, pleasure, peace, and love?
Haste thee, in summer's youthful noon,
The green, the joyous month of June,
Far from the sultry streeted town,
And lay thee in the evening down
In some sweet hamlet's white-wall'd cot,
Round which the pear and apricot
Twine their green arms, and sparrows watch
From their snug peep-holes in the thatch;
And the light latticed porch embower
The creeper and the passion-flower.

'Twere well, my Friend, for human kind,
Would ev'ry Man his Bus'ness mind,
In his own Orbit always move,
Nor blame, nor envy those above.

A Beaver, well advanc'd in Age,
By long Experience render'd sage,
Was skill'd in all the useful Arts,
And justly deem'd a Beast of Parts;
Which he apply'd (as Patriots shou'd)
In cultivating publick good.

This Beaver on a certain Day,
A friendly Visit went to pay
To a young Cousin, pert and vain,
Who often rov'd about the Plain:

Said I, " Sweet maid, I do not know your name,
And you, most sure, a stranger are to me;
But birds sing sweeter for your presence here, —
My heart is captured by your witchery. "
She fled from me,
In dread of me.

Said I, " Sweet maid, I did not know your name,
And you, most sure, a stranger were to me;
But birds sing sadder for your absence here, —
My heart is broken by your witchery. "

All sad and slow, a little bark
Hath left our northern hold;
The winds are high, the night is dark,
The ocean path untold.
And they who in that boat are set
Are sad and woe-begone;
A gallant knight of stalwart might,
A lady and her son.
And that lady's cheek is pale
As is the lily's breast;
And she, with many a mournful tale,
Has hush'd her babe to rest.
And he who sits beside her there,
With eye of love, and brow of care,
And mantle wrapp'd round aching breast,
Is one who may not taste of rest.

Oh! see'st thou not yon wayward wight?
He wanders forth at waning light,
And leaves the world of gladness,
To mark the calm of eventide,
To hear the waters' peaceful glide,
When all is hush'd and calm, beside
The gale's low sigh of sadness.

No living thing is wand'ring there,
Yet, on the still and moonlit air
Are thousand voices stealing,
That o'er him pass like soothing balm,
Or music with its dearest charm,
Softening the tumult into calm,
His wounded spirit healing.

Folks that are wickedly inclin'd
Are not to Modes of Vice confin'd —
Sir Roger with his Glass gets drunk,
His Butler sucks it thro' a Trunk:
So Women of the Town resort
As well to Paul 's, as to the Court —
'Tis not the Instrument or Place,
But only Peoples Want of Grace.

To set this Thought in proper Light,
One short Example I'll recite.
Dear R — — o , pardon, if to thee
Of little Use such Stories be;
Who know'st of sinning Fashions plenty,

Imitated from C LAUDIAN

I.

How bless'd the Swain of Bethnal-green ,
 Who ne'er a Court beheld,
Nor ever rov'd beyond the Scene
 Of his paternal Field!

II.

 B UT , where he prov'd the Go-cart's Aid,
 He prov'd the Crutch's too;
One only House his Mansion made,
 Till Life (tho' late) withdrew.

III.

False Fortune ne'er, with Smile or Frown,
 Or rais'd him, or deprest;
Her Frowns and Smiles were both unknown
 To his contented Breast.