English

The former age, but too much blest
With fruitful fields, content did rest
Not with dul luxury yet lost,
Their hunger staid with little cost;
A slender chesnut them suffis'd,
They had not yet the way devis'd
To mix live hony with their wine;
Nor were they grown so proudly fine
In their apparel, as to staine,
White fleeces in a purple graine.
On sallets sup'd, sweet sleep they took,
And drink had from the running brook;
The lofty pine was then their shade,
Not yet through deep seas did they wade;

With eyes, un-brib'd, by your enchanting view,
I trac'd, impartial, your soft numbers thro'?
Your loose-dress'd fancy , in each sparkling line,
Gilds the gay current of your deep design.
Your poem, strongly fine, and softly bold,
Is silkworm's labour, spun, with threads of gold.
Go on, bright maid! nor doubt the world's applause;
Wit , arm'd with looks , like yours, the critic awes!
Tho' years may knit, and lengthen your success,
Think not your youth will your due praise oppress :
Ev'n the broad sun , when, first, his glories rise,

He that lives quiet in a setled state,
And treads below his feet high-minded fate,
That either fortune upright can behold
With an unpaunted face, and courage bold;
Not all the raging threats o' th' sea, nor yet
Vesuvius' smoaking fires when ere they get
Out of their broken chimneys, nor the bright
Flashes of lightning which are used to smite
The highest towers, til to ground they fall,
Can move this man, or trouble him at all.
Why doe men so much tyrants rage admire,
Since they want strength unto their fierce desire?

Of two reliefs to ease a love-sick mind,
Flavia prescribes despair: I urge Be kind.
Flavia be kind; the remedy's as sure;
'Tis the most pleasant, and the quickest cure.

Blest be thy pow'rful pen, whoe'er thou art!
Thou skill'd, great moulder of the master'd heart!
Where hast thou lain conceal'd? or why thought fit,
At this dire period, to unveil thy wit?
O! late befriended isle! had this broad blaze,
With earlier beamings, bless'd our fathers days,
The pilot radiance pointing out the source,
Whence public wealth derives its vital course;
Each timely draught, some healing pow'r had shown,
E're general gangreen blacken'd, to the bone .
But fest'ring , now, beyond all sense of pain,

AT THE Alpha D ELTA P HI C ONVENTION , M AY 8, 1879

For Forty Years
Of mingled hopes and fears, —
Of tales of battle, told with bated breath,
Of peace, returning with her olive wreath,
Of love, of joy, of sorrow, and of death!

For suns will sink, and twilights melt away,
Cool evenings hurry on, nor midnight stay,
But at the summons of the morn e'en night grows gray,
Stars fade from sight, and lo, the light, the day!

Such change from day to night,

AT THE Phi B ETA Kappa M EETING OF 1884, — AFTER M R B AYARD'S A DDRESS

When Nestor ended, 'mid the loud acclaim,
As echoing plaudits sounded down the shore,
If from the listening ranks some stripling came,
And like some Oliver, demanded more,
The graver chieftains of maturer age
Half heard and half deferred his bold request;
They bade each beardless youth, each hoary sage,
Wait for the sequel till they'd done the feast.

For down the shore, by smoke and vapor hid,
The cooks were basting while the spits went round,

Now Serena, bee not coy;
Since wee frely may enjoy
Sweete imbraces: such delights,
As will shorten tedious nightes.
Thinke that beauty will not stay
With you allwaies, but away,
And that tyrannizing face
That now holdes such perfect grace,
Will both chaing'd and ruined bee;
So fraile is all thinges as wee see,
So subject unto conquering Time.
Then gather Flowers in theire prime,
Let them not fall and perish so;
Nature her bountyes did bestow
On us that wee might use them: And

UPON UNNATURAL FLIGHTS IN POETRY .

As when some image of a charming face,
In living paint, an artist tries to trace,
He carefully consults each beauteous line,
Adjusting to his object his design;
We praise the piece, and give the painter fame,
But as the just resemblance speaks the dame.
Poets are limners of another kind,
To copy out ideas in the mind;
Words are the paint by which their thoughts are
And Nature sits the object to be drawn;
The written picture we applaud or blame

Thou sentst to mee a heart was crown'd
I tooke itt to be thine;
But when I saw itt had a wound
I knew that heart was mine.
A bounty of a strange conceit
To send my owne to mee,
And send itt in a worse estate,
Then itt was sent to thee.
The heart I sent was free from staine,
Itt was entire and sound,
But thou returndst itt back againe,
Sick of a deadly wound.
O heavens how wouldst thou use a heart,
That should rebellious bee;
Since thou art so unkind to that
Which so much honoured thee.