ON CHRISTMAS DAY. AWAKE from silence ev'ry voice, On this distinguish'd day of grace, Bow down your heads, ye lofty pines, Let nought but harmony and love Approve, and join the heav'nly strain. When we in bondage were exil'd, That from his seat of perfect bliss Such goodness, such stupendous care! Ye wing'd inhabitants of air, All ye that graze the verdant plain, Some signs of exultation show, While grateful minds your voices raise, 'Tis all that mortals can bestow, To hail the day in songs of praise : While skilful hands the chorus join, And tune the rapture-raising lyre ; While grateful strains of love divine, Serene, extatic joys inspire. Thus sacred be the happy day, While sun, and moon, and stars endure; Till nature feels her last decay, And time itself shall be no more. W. B. TO A FRIEND. Written after his departure to the West-Indies. ADIEU, my much lov'd friend! adieu for ever! O thou whom many an envious league doth sever, Thee my lorn fancy loves to picture, sailing And dreaming joys thou haply ne'er shalt taste. For ah! to what blest region canst thou wander, Where scenes than ours more fair thy senses greet; Where canst thou view more healthful streams meander? Find skies more genial, airs more balmy sweet? What though the clime thou seek'st with maize wide spreading, Bananas tall, in green luxuriance smile; What though the citron, richest odours shedding, There many a Briton-cross'd the hostile surges, And arid fever breathes contagious death! But thou art gone, and vain the voice dissuading:- Say, when the sun, meridian beams diffusing, Say, when the breezes sleep on Ocean's pillow, W. Case, Jun. THE LONG VACATION. My lord now quits his venerable seat, Now all is hush'd, asleep the eye of care, Save that, from yonder pump, and dusty stair, And leave their little quarterage unpaid. In those dull chambers, where old parchments lie, And useless draughts, in many a mould'ring heap, Each for parade to catch the clients eye, Salkeld and Ventris in oblivion sleep. In these dead hours, what now remains for me? Hail, beauteous nymph! how does thy presence gild Blest in thy love, sincerely I despise The quibble, warmly urg'd with many a frown, British Chronicle. |