But when, with brighter flames bespread,
The heav'ns their fiercest influence shed,
In fiery noon of day;

The Muse shall seek the deepest grove,
Where, breathing sweet, the lute of Love,
Shall answer to her softest lay.

The Fawns and Satyrs all around,
And Dryad-girls shall catch the sound,
Their oaken shades among;

The genuine Bard shall these descry,

No vulgar ear, no vulgar eye,

Shall see their haunts, shall hear her song.

But let them hail that hallow'd hour,
When COLLINS felt the forceful pow'r
And tun'd his evening reed;

The sweetest theme, in sweetest strain,
The Poet sung, nor sung in vain,

Him Glory deck'd with deathless meed. I

Then now, when Eve with chaster light
Beams softly on the peasant's sight,
And skirts the village-plain;
On every daisy-painted mead
The virgin quire the dance shall lead,
And shepherd-boys applaud the train.

And by each dear and sacred stream,
Near which, by day, the Fairies dream,
Their Elfin Troop shall spring;
And featly as they foot it round,
Encircling swift the dewy ground,
The sylvan Muse shall sweetly sing;

How Innocence with virgin fáce,
And modest airs of artless grace
All love the sylvan cell;
And simple Truth, and Pleasure fair
Delight no more in city air,

No more in riot orgies dwell.

And Contemplation's spirit clear,
Slow pacing thro' the woodlands near,
These gentlest forms shall view;
And Fancy, with her pencil pure,
Shall paint them strong, and bid endure
The Poet's eye, to Fancy true.

FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.

I ASK'D my fair, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay,
By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece,
Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,

Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris,

Dorimene or Lucrece ?

Ah replied my gentle fair,

Beloved, what are names but air?
Take thou whatever suits the line,
Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris-
But don't forget to call me-thine.

PHILADELPHIA.

HARLEY.

THE PANSY.

WHEN the young Spring her feather'd train recalls,
And when the bee rebuilds his honied walls;
When gentle April sheds her genial show'rs,
And fanning zephyrs breathe on budding flow'rs;
Tufted in grassy rings where Fairies play,
Pansies unseen their rainbow robes display;
Like pigmy peacocks spread their purple plumes,
Shedding at once a season of perfumes.
A jetty star protects their ivory breast,
And velvet saffron forms their decent vest.
But when grey Autumn calls his brother winds,
Unturns the iron key their wrath confines,
Bids dark November's threat'ning tempests roar,
And warns the ant to hoard his winter store;
Void of all shape, all colour, all perfume,
Pale is the jetty star and purple plume;
Resigned, the florets feel the blast of death,
And ere they heave the last long parting breath,
They hide, instinctive, in funereal snows
The treasured capsules which their young inclose.
Round their cold tombs the infant seedlings lie,
To bud and blossom where their parents die.

C. SNEYD EDGEWORTH.

MELANCHOLY.

WE

HEN the tempest howls rough thro' the dark wither'd grove,

And the rude blasts of Winter all Nature deform; Amid the dire scenes unappall'd I could rove, And rest undisturb'd by the rage of the storm.

Yet why, when the wild winds of Winter are flown, When hush'd to repose are the waves on the sea; When Spring o'er the earth her green mantle has thrown,

And the sweet voice of Gladness is heard from each

tree;

When all the fair objects that earth can bestow,
Combine to inspire me with transports of joy,
O why on my tongue dwell the accents of woe?
Why bursts from my bosom the sorrow-fraught
sigh?

When the blushes of morn tinge the clouds of the east, I seek the lone cave on the wave-beaten shore Where the sea-bird screams wild as she starts from

her nest,

And the loud-sounding surge in the hollow rocks

roar:

I mark the tall cliff, hoary, rugged, and bare,

That rears its broad breast in the midst of the waves, Where the mermaid, they say, often combs her dark hair,

And sings o'er the sailors that rest in their graves.

When the sun sinks behind the high hills of the west,
All lonely and pensive I rest by the stream,
I call to remembrance the days that are past,

And compare all my joys to the sun's setting beam.

I see with regret where the hawthorn once stood, And the yellow furze blossom'd, the marks of the plough,

Yet pleas'd I behold the rock shatter'd and rude, And view with delight the bleak mountain's bare brow.

Beneath the green elm waving dark in the air,

Oft I sit while the moon lights her lamp in the skyAh! why must I tell that my Peggy sleeps there, And that there all my hopes and my happiness lye?

ARBROATH,

W. A.

EPIGRAM, FROM LESSING,

On a Volume of Epigrams.

POINT in his foremost epigram is found:
Bee-like, he lost his sting at the first wound.