With Piety, that waits on wings to rise,
Her looks for ever lifted to the skies;
O, come with all thy mental moral train,
And in this peaceful rural kingdom reign!

Heaven meant immortals for sublimer things
Than wealth’s gay glitter and the pomp of kings;
For pleasures, grace, and dignity, denied
To the vain sons of Folly and of Pride:
Yet frantic man, rebellious to his will,
His gifts abusing, turns his good to ill:
Some dear ideal bliss is still pursued ;
But still his Juno proves a painted cloud :
Reason, his better Genius, warns in vain;
Passion persuades, and he believes again;
Ardent he runs to seize the fairy prize,
Till fainting in the fruitless race he dies.

Smile ye not, angels? when in scorn ye scan The various follies of your mimic, man; His boasted reason, dupe to every lust; His high ambition, groveling in the dust; A fool with knowledge and with foresight blind; Perplex'd between his matter and his mind, Where great and mean, where mortal and divine, Heaven, earth, brute, angel in confusion join; Like jarring atoms in one chaos hurld, Which well arranged would form a beauteous Ye smile to see the puny godhead rave; (world. Great lord of earth, his meanest passion's slave! Drunk at the banquet, glorious on the throne, And now an Ammon's, now a Philip's son! Nor ye, the great, like erring mortals, name Ambition's madmen or the fools of fame; Nor those court pageants, starr'd and titled things, The gilded tools of ministers and kings;

Nor those, the wolves and harpies of their race,
Who rise by wicked arts to power and place :
But mark, where poor, unnoticed, or unknown,
Neglected Virtue smiles at Fortune's frown;
Or bless'd by Fortune in a private state,
By worth ennobled, and by goodness great;
Bright on whose generous breast those splendours

glow
Of sacred honour, kings could ne'er bestow;
The friend of man! who can in life confess
No joy worth living but the joy to bless.

REV, H. MOORE.

A HERMIT'S MEDITATION.

In lonesome cave,
Of noise and interruption void,

His thoughtful solitude
A hermit thus enjoy'd.

His choicest book,
The remnant of a human head,

The volume was, whence he
This solemn lecture read.

Whoever thou art,
Partner of my retirement now,

My nearest intimate,
My best companion Thou !

On thee to muse
The busy living world I left;

Of converse all but thine,
And silent that, bereft.

Wert thou the rich,
The idol of a gazing crowd?

Wert thou the great,
To whom obsequious thousands bow'd?

Was learning's store
Ere treasured up within this shell ?

Did Wisdom ere within
This empty hollow dwell ?

Did youthful charms
Ere redden on this ghastful face?

Did Beauty's bloom these cheeks,
This forehead ever grace?

If on this brow
Ere sat the scornful haughty frown;

Deceitful Pride! where now
Is that disdain ?-'Tis gone.

If cheerful Mirth
A gayness o'er this baldness cast;

Delusive, fleeting joy!
Where is it now?_'Tis pass'd.

To deck this scalp,
If tedious longlived hours it cost;

Vain, fruitless toil! where's now
That labour seen?'Tis lost,

But painful sweat,
The dear-earn'd price of daily bread,

Was all perhaps that thee
With hungry sorrows fed.

Perhaps but tears,
Surest relief of heartsick woe,

Thine only drink, from down
These sockets used to flow.

Oppress'd perhaps
With aches and with aged cares,

Down to the grave thou brought'st
A few and hoary hairs,

'Tis all perhaps
No marks, no tokens can I trace

What on this stage of life
Thy rank or station was.

Nameless, unknown,
Of all distinction stripp'd and bare,

In nakedness conceal'd,
0, who shall thee declare!

Nameless, unknown!
Yet fit companion thou for me,

Who hear no human voice,
No human visage see.

From me, from thee
The glories of the world are gone :

Nor yet have either lost
What we could call our own.

What we are now
The great, the wise, the fair, the brave

Shall all hereafter be;
All hermits in the grave.

ANONYMOUS,

VIRTUE'S TRIUMPH.
Though life be short, and man doth, as the sun,

His journey finish in a little space ;
The way is wide an honest course to run,

And great the glories of a virtạous race,
VOL. I.

MM

That, at the last, do our just labours crown
With threefold wreath, love, honour, and renown.
Nor can night's shadow or the Stygian deep

Conceal fair Virtue from the world's wide eye; The more oppress'd the more she strives to peep,

And raise her rose-bound golden head on high : When epicures, the wretch, and worldly slave Shall rot in shame, alive and in the grave.

PEACHAM.

THE PALACE OF FORTUNE.

An Indian Tale. Mild was the vernal gale, and calm the day, When Maia near a crystal fountain lay, Young Maia, fairest of the blue-eyed maids, That roved at noon in Tibet's musky shades; But, haply, wandering through the fields of air, Some fiend had whisper'd— Maia, thou art fair!' Hence swelling pride had fill’d her simple breast, And rising passions robb'd her mind of rest; In courts and glittering towers she wish'd to dwell, And scorn'd her labouring parents' lowly cell. And now, as gazing o'er the glassy stream, She saw her blooming cheeks' reflected beam, Her tresses brighter than the morning sky, And the mild radiance of her sparkling eye, Low sighs and trickling tears by turns she stole, And thus discharged the anguish of her soul

Why glow those cheeks, if unadmired they glow? Why flow those tresses, if unpraised they flow? Why dart those eyes their liquid ray serene, Unfelt their influence, and their light unseen!

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