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Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,

Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers, but silence honoured thee
Mute as ever gazed an Orator or Bard.
Thou art not voice alone, but bast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,
Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

LINES, ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

Author of the “ Botanic Garden."
TWO Poets*, (poets, by report,

Not oft so well agree)
Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!

Conspire to honour Thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth,

Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

We therefore pleased extol thy song,

Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as strong,

And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,

Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would---they must at thine.

But we, in mutual bondage knit

Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundiced eye; * Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this. And deem the Bard, whoever he be,

And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,

Unworthy. of his own.

ON MRS. MONTAGUE'S

FEATHER-HANGINGS.

THE Birds put off their every hue
To dress a room for Montague.

The Peacock seņds his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The Pheasant, plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock, his arch'd tail's azure show;
And, river blanched, the Swan, his snow.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine or vivid flame,
Where rises and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But screened from every storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montague.

To the same patroness resort, Secure of favour at her court, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigour move Like Pallas springing armed from Jove--Imagination scattering round Wild roses over furrowed ground, Which Labour of his frown beguile, And teach Philosophy a smile--

Wit Aashing on Religion's side,
Whose fires to sacred Truth applied,
The gem, though luminous before,
Obtrude on human notice more,
Like sun-beams on the golden height
Of some tall temple playing bright---
Well-tutored Learning, from his books
Dismissed with grave, not haughty, looks,
Their order on his shelves exact,
Not more harmonious or compact
Than that, to which he keeps confined
The various treasures of his mind---
All these to Montague's repair,
Ambitious of a shelter there.
There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit,
The ruffled plumage calm refit,
(For stormy troubles loudest roar
Around their Aight who highest soar)
And in her eye, and by her aid,
Shine safe without a fear to fade.

She thus maintains divided sway
With yon bright regent of the day;
The Plume and Poet both we know
Their lustre to his infuence owe;
And she the works of Phæbus aiding,
Both Poet saves and Plume from fading.

VERSES,

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his

solitary Abode on the Island of Juan Fernandez.
I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, solitude! where are the charms,

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth. Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly world! More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell

These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. Ye winds, that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more, My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind !

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest

The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in

every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

ON THE PROMOTION OF

EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.
To the Lord High Chancellorship of England.
ROUND Thurlow's head in early youth,

And in bis sportive days,
Fair science poured the light of truth,

And genius sheds his rays.

See! with united wonder, cried

Th' experienced and the sage, Ambition in a boy supplied

With all the skill of age!

Discernment, eloquence, and grace

Proclaim him born to sway The balance in the highest place,

And bear the palm away.

The praise bestowed was just and wise;

He sprang impetuous forth Secure of conquest, where the prize

Attends superior worth.

So the best courser on the plain

Ere yet he starts is known, And does but at the goal obtain,

What all had deemed his own.

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