To teach the young idea how to shoot,
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,
To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix
The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
Oh speak the joy! ye, whom the sudden tear
Surprises often, while you look around.
And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss,
All various Nature pressing on the heart:
An elegant sufficiency, content,

Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease, and alternate labor, useful life,

Progressive virtue, and approving heaven:
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;
And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus,
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy, and consenting Spring
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads :
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;
When after the long vernal day of life,
Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells
With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they sink in social sleep;
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.

When first the soul of love is sent abroad,
Warm thro' the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,
In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing,
And try again the long-forgotten strain,
At first faint-warbled But no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent, and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfin'd. Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the messenger of morn :
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse

P 2

Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads.
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending throng
Superior heard, run thro' the sweetest length
Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bulfinch answers from the grove :
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze
Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulation mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes
A melancholy murmur thro' the whole.
Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods
They haste away, all as their fancy leads,
Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts;
That Nature's great command may be obey'd,
Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive
Indulg'd in vain. Some to the holly-hedge
Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;
Some to the rude protection of the thorn
Commit their feeble offspring: the cleft tree --
Offers its kind concealment to a few,

Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.
Others apart far in the grassy dale,

Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave.
But most in woodland solitudes delight,

In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,
Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,

Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day,
When by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots
Of hazel, pendant o'er the plaintive stream,
They frame the first foundation of their domes,
Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,

And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought

But restless hurry thro' the busy air,

Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps
The slimy pool, to build his hanging house
Intent.

And often, from the careless back

Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserv'd Steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm, Clean, and complete, their habitation grows.

OBLIVION

Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?
Oh! none :-another busy brood of beings
Will shoot up in the interim, and none
Will hold him in remembrance.

I shall sink,
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets
Of busy London ;-some short bustle's caus'd,
A few inquiries, and the crowds close in,
And all's forgotten.-On my grassy grave,
The men of future times will careless tread,
And read my name upon the sculptur'd stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,
Recal my vanish'd memory I did hope
For better things I hop'd I should not leave
The earth without a vestige.

DECLINING HEALTH.

I only wake to watch the sickly taper
Which lights me to my tomb.-Yes, 'tis the hand
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
Slow sapping the warm current of existence,
My moments now are few.The sand of life.
Ebbs fastly to its finish.-Yet a little,
And the last fleeting particle will fall
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.

Come, then, sad thought, and let us meditate,
While meditate we may.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN ALMERIA AND LEONORA IN THE
AISLE OF THE TEMPLE; FROM CONGREVE'S
MOURNING BRIDE-ACT 2, SCENE 3.
Almeria and Leonora.

Alm. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed.
Leo. It bore the accent of a human voice.

Alm. It was thy fear or else some transient wind Whistling thro' hollows of this vaulted aisle. We'll listen.

Leo Hark!

Alm. No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis dread ful!

How reverend is the face of this tall pile,

Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft it's arch'd and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immoveable,
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aking sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.
Leo. Let us return, the horror of this place
And silence, will increase your melancholy.
Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that.
No, I will on: shew me Anselmo's tomb.-
Lead me o'er bones and skulls and mould'ring earth
Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them,

Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride
Of Garcia's more detested bed that thought
Exerts my spirit, and my present fears
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then shew me,
Lead me, for I'm bolder grown; lead on

Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again
To him to heav'n, and my Alphonso's soul.

Leo Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb
The poor remains of good Anselmo rest,
Yet fresh and unconsum'd by time or worms.
What do I see? O heav'n either my eyes

Are false or still the marble door remains
Unclos'd; the iron grates that lead to death.
Beneath, are still wide stretch'd upon their hinge,
And staring on us with unfolded leaves.

Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me ;
And that dumb mouth significant in shew,
Invites me to the bed, where I alone

Shall rest; shew me the grave, where nature weary
And long oppressed with woes and bending cares,
May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death will fold
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close
To his cold clayey breast. My father then
Will cease his tyranny, and Garcia too
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing.
My soul enlarged from its vile bonds will mount
And range the starry orbs, and milky ways,
Of that refulgent world where I shall swim
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss
To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great!
O ecstacy of thought! help me, Anselmo,
Help me, Alphonso! take me, reach thy hand;
To thee, to thee I call, to thee Alphonso,
, Alphonso!

Enter Osmyn ascending from the tomb. Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso!

Alm. Angels! and all the hosts of heav'n support me! Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness from

the grave

And growing to his father's shroud, roots up
Alphonso!

Alm. Mercy, Providence, O! speak!

Speak to it quickly, quickly; speak to me,
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me,
Leonora, in thy bosom from the light

And from my eyes.

Osm. Amazement and illusion! Rivet and nail me where I stand,

ye pow'rs!

That motionless I may be still deceived.
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve