Page images
PDF

To Britain's isle direct their car,
And enter'd with the evening star.
Beside the road a mansion stood,
Defended by a circling wood:
Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend,
In hopes, perchance, to find a friend:
Nor vain their hope; for records say,
Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away.
They urge the traveller's common chance,
And every piteous plea advance:
The artful tale that Wit had feign'd
Admittance easy soon obtain'd.
The dame who own'd, adorn'd the place;
Three blooming daughters added grace.
The first, with gentlest manners blest
And temper sweet, each heart possest;
Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame:
And soft Amasia was her name.
In sprightly sense and polish'd air,
What maid with Mira might compare?
While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyre
Did unresisted love inspire.
Imagine now the table clear,
And mirth in every face appear:
The song, the tale, the jest went round,
The riddle dark, the trick profound.
Thus each admiring and admir’d,
The hosts and guests at length retir’d;

When Wit thus spake her sister train:
“Faith, friends, our errand is but vain–
Quick let us measure back the sky;
These nymphs alone may well supply
Wit, Innocence, and Harmony.

an invitation. To

THE FEATHERED RACE.

BY THE REV. M. R. GRAVES.

Again the balmy Zephyr blows,
Fresh verdure decks the grove,

Each bird with vernal rapture glows,
And tunes his notes to love.

Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,
And shun the noontide heat;

My shrubs a cooling shade supply,
My groves a safe retreat.

Here freely hop from spray to spray,
Or weave the mossy nest;

Here rove and sing the live-long day,
At night here sweetly rest.

Amidst this cool translucentrill,
That trickles down the glade,

Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,
E'er shows his ruddy face,

Or twangs a bow, or hurls a stone
In this sequester'd place.

Hither the vocal Thrush repairs,
Secure the Linnet sings,

The Goldfinch dreads no slimy snares
To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomell ah, quit thy haunt
Yon distant woods among,

And round my friendly grotto chaunt
Thy sweetly-plaintive song.

Let not the harmless Redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come

And seek a sure asylum here,
With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve;

Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe!
Come, feed without reserve.

For you these cherries I protect,
To you these plums belong:

Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd,
But sweeter far your song.

Let then this league betwixt us made
Our mutual interests guard,

Mine be the gift of fruit and shade;
Your songs be my reward.

ODE TO TRUTH.

BY MASON.

Sax, will no white-rob’d son of light,
Swift darting from his heav'nly height,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Here wave his amber locks; unfold
His pinious cloth'd with downy gold;
Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?
And you, ye hosts of saints! for ye have known
Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,
Though now ye circle yon eternal throne
With harpings high of inexpressive praise,
Will not your train descend in radiant state,
To break with mercy'sbeam this gathering cloud of sate

'Tis silence all. No son of light
Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:
No train of radiant saints descend.
G

i

i

“Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,
If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind,
Or saint to hear, or angel to defend.”

So truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound

Burst from the centre of her burning throne, Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd; A bright sun clasps her adamantine zone. So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear; With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear.

Attend, ye sons of men! attend, and say, Does not enough of my refulgent ray Break through the veil of your mortality? Say, does not reason in this form descry Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass The angel's floating pomp, the seraph's glowing grace? Shall then your earth-born daughters vie With me! Shall she, whose brightest eye But emulates the diamond's blaze, Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom, Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume, Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays, Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form Of elementas dross, of mould'ring clay, Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day Shall pass, and she is gone: while I appear Flush'd with the bloom of youth through heaven's eternal year.

« PreviousContinue »