His soul, proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar alk, or milky way;

Yet simple Nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n,
Some safer world `n depth of woods embraced,
Some happier islar d in the watery waste;

Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To Be, contents his natural desire,

He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.

Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense
Weigh thy opinion against Providence;
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such,
Say, here he gives too little, there too much :
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, if Man's unhappy, God's unjust;
If Man alone engross not Heav'n's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there :
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the GOD of GOD.
In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,
Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods.
Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell,
Aspiring to be Angels, men rebel :
And who but wishes to invert the laws

Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

WHEN Music, heavenly inaid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;

And as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each, for madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid:
And back recoil'd he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire;

In lightnings own'd his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyreAnd swept with hurried hands the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled;

A solemn, strange, and mingled air;

'Twas sad, by fits-by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, Oh Hope! with eyes so fair,

What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on echo still through all her song;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat.

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien;

While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state.

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound.

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay,
(Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,)
In hollow murmurs died away.

But O, how altered was its sprightlier tone!

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Plew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs, and sylvan Boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address’ù;
But, soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,)
And he amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

COLLINS.

THE MARINER'S DREAM.

IN slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay;

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind. But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dream'd of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasure that waited on life's merry morn;
While Memory stood sideways, half cover'd with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise-
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dea

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse—all his hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest— "O God thou hast bless'd me- I ask for no more."

.

Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere!