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 inan 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.

THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT,

TO LADY THROCKMORTON.

MARIA! I have every good.

For thee wished many a time, Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhime. ,

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed

From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour then not yet possessed

Can I for thee require, In wedded love already blest, • To thy whole heart's desire ?

None here is happy but in part:

Fuil bliss is bliss divine; There dwells some wish in every heart,

And doubtless one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day,

Which fate shall brightly gild, “'Tis blameless, be it what it may)

I wish it all fulfilled.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That to the wrong side leaning Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning.

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations,

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away

A poet's drop of ink?