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Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird,

Soft as the passing wind, And I recorded what I heard,

A lesson for mankind.

A FABLE

A RAVEN, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed,
And, on her wicker-work high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted,
(A fault philosophers might blame,
If quite exempted from the same,)
Enjoyed at ease the genial day;
'Twas April as the bumpkins say,
The legislature called it May.
But suddenly a wind, as high
As ever swept a winter sky,
Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And filled her with a thousand fears,
Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
And spread her golden hopes below.
But just at eve the blowing weather,
And all her fears, were hushed together;
“And now," quoth poor unthinking Ralph,
« 'Tis over, and the brood is safe;'
(For ravens, though, as birds of omen,
They teach both conjurers and old women
To tell us what is to befall,
Can't prophesy themselves at all).
The morning came, when neighbour Hodge
Who long had marked her airy lodge,
And destined all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,
Climbed like a squirrel to his dray,
And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL
'Tis Providence alone secures
In every change both mine and yours:
Safety consists not in escape
From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man that's strangled by a hair.

Fate steals along with silent tread,
Found oftenest in what least we dread,
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow,

A COMPARISON

The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace with which they steal away
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when past,
And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,
A difference strikes at length the musing heart;
Streams never flow in vain ; where streams abound
How laughs the land with various plenty crowned !
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected, leaves a dreary waste behind.

ANOTHER

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid !
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng,
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes ;
Pure-bosomed as that watery glass,
And heaven reflected in her face !

VERSES

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK DURING HIS SOLITARY

ABODE IN 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.

O 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 word !
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 his sportive days,
Fair Science poured the light of truth,

And Genius shed his rays.
“ See !” with united wonder cried

The 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 det med his own,

Ode to PEACE
Come, peace of mind, delightful guest !
Return and make thy downy nest

Once more in this sad heart :
Nor riches I nor power pursue,
Nor hold forbidden joys in view;

We therefore need not part.

[graphic]

LORD THURLOW FROM AN ENGRAVING BY DICKENSON AFTER THE PORTRAIT BY GEORGE ROMNEY

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