So in thy being's mighty span,
The transitory race of man,

Successive heirs of human woe,

In varying tides shall ebb and flow;
And even thou, when many an age
Has measur'd thine appointed stage,
Within thy solid core shalt feel
The canker, art can never heal.

Then every moment's little length

Shall drain thy veins and sap thy strength;

And then the worm's insidious tooth

Devour the relics of thy youth;

Till every branch, wind-worn and shrunk,
Forsake in turn thy scaly trunk ;
And mouldering in a ripe decay,
Thy shrivell'd wreck fall fast away,
Scatter'd by every passing gust,
To mingle with its kindred dust;
And thy existence then appear

As short as his who plac'd thee here.

SONNET,

ON THE APPROACH OF WINTER.

WINTER, I fear thee not! tho' long I've seen
Thy dread approach-clad in thy mantle grey,
And icy weeds, and blasting in thy way
Fair Nature's lingering sweets, and robes of green.
Ah no! I fear thee not; thou canst not steal
My homefelt bliss-thou canst not bid me part
With hopes and joys, that cheer and fill my heart,
And kindred ties, which teach that heart to feel:
Safe bosom'd in my lov'd and happy home,
With friendship, books, and music's soul-felt
charm,

My days flow peaceful on-content and calm, No city joys can give one wish to roam.

Come, Winter, cast around thy tracts of snow, My mind no cheerless winter e'er shall know.

THE MYRTLE.

BRIGHT glow'd the Myrtle's verdant pride,

That near my lowly cottage sprung;

But on the gale of eventide,

The tree no grateful odours flung.

Once with rude hand a branch I tore,
And all its tender leaflets prest ;

When, pouring forth its hidden store,
Its native sweetness stood confest.

'Tis thus in life's untroubled day,

The virtuous mind its charms withholds;

Nor always ventures to display

That excellence the heart enfolds.

But when severe misfortunes rise,
Its genuine worth is felt and prov'd;
And whilst it suffers, droops, or dies,

'Tis doubly cherish'd, mourn'd, and lov'd.

SONNET.

O BLESSED be the tear that sadly roll'd

For me, my Mother! down thy sacred cheek; That with a silent fervor did bespeak

A fonder tale than language ever told;

And pour'd such balm upon my spirit weak And wounded, in a world so harsh and cold, As that wherewith an angel would uphold Those that astray heaven's holy guidance seek. And tho' it pass'd away, and, soon as shed, Seem'd ever lost to vanish from thine eye, Yet only to the dearest store it fled

Of my remembrance, where it now doth lie, Like a thrice precious relic of the dead, The chiefest jewel of its treasury.