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 deemed 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.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From avarice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets, that I was wont to share,

The banquet of thy smiles ?

The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven, that thou alone canst make?

And wilt thou quit the stream, That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequestered shed,

To be a guest with them?

For thee 1 panted, thee I prized,
For thee I gladly sacrificed

Whate'er I loved before;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say–

Farewell! we meet no more?

HUMAN FRAILTY.

Weak and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to day,
Woven with pains into his plan,

To morrow rends away.

Sain;

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,

Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part; Virtue engages his assent,

But pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies,

His conscience owns it true.