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Inexorably calm, with silent pace

Here Time has pass'd—What ruin marks hisway! This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,

Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.

Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes
In vain; and Melody her song sublime:

In vain, Philosophy, with maxims wise,

Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.

Yet the hoar tyrant, though not mov'd to spare,
Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;

And partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tott'ring tow'rs with twisted ivy ty'd.

How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss,
That terminates the view, yon cloister'd way!

In the crush'd wall, a time-corroded cross,
Religion like, stands mould'ring in decay!

Where the mild Sun, through saint-encypher"d glass,
Illum'd with mellow light yon dusky isle,

Many rapt hours might Meditation pass,
Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the pile!

And Piety, with mystie-meanmg bead?,
Bowing to saints on every side inum'd,

Trod oft the solitary path that leads
Where now the sacred altar lies o'erturn'd!

Through the grey grove, between those with'ring trees,

'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears A marble-imag'd matron on her knees, Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears:

Low levell'd in the dust her darling's laid!

Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom; Nor could maternal piety dissuade,

Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

The relics of a mitred saint may rest,

Where, mould'ring in the niche, his statue stands 3

Now nameless as the crowd that kiss'd his vest, And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illustrious chieftain lie;As trae'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.

Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain,
His rights and rich demesnes extended wide!

That Honour and her knights compos'd his train,
And Chivalry stood marshal'd by his side!

Though to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb, And frown'd defiance on the desp'rate foe;

Thoughdeem'd invincible, the conqueror, Time, Levell'd the fabric, as the founder, low.

Where the light lyre gave many a soft'ning sound,
Ravens and rooks, the birds of discord, dwell;

And where Society sat sweetly crown'd,
Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.

The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,
Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room,

Where the sage matron and her maidens sat,
Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom.

The traveller's bewilder'd" on a waste;

And the rude winds incessant seem to roar, Where, in his groves with arching arbours grae'd,

Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.

His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide
To pure canals, a crystal cool supply!

In the deep dust their barren beauties hide: [dry I
Time's thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them

Though his rich hours in revelry were spent,
With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew;

And the sweet brow of Beauty, still unbent,
Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew:

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;

Not to be stay'd by masque or midnight roar! Nor shall a pulse among that mould'ring dust

Beat wanton at the smiles of Beauty more!

Can the deep statesman, skill'd in great design,
Protract, but for a day, precarious, breath?

Or the tun'd follower of the sacred Nine
Soothe, with his melody, insatiate Death!

No—though the palace bar her golden gate,
Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around;

Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of Fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!

What then avails Ambition's wide-stretch'd wing,
The schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty '1 bloom?

The crape-clad hermit, and the ricb-rob'd king,
Levell'd, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb.

The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,
Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began,

Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood, "Philip! remember, thou 'rt no more than man.

"Though glory spread thy name from poletopole: Though thou art merciful, and brave, and^ust;

Philip, reflect, thou 'rt posting to the goal,
Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!"

So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd,
(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdu'd)

Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd, when the perishable pomp he view'd:

And as he rode, high in his regal car

In all the purple pride of conquest drest;

Conspicuous, o'er the trophies gain'd in war,
Plac'd, pendent on a spear, his burial vest:

While thus the herald cry'd—" This son of Pow'r,
This Saladin, to whom the nations bow'd,

May, in the space of one revolving hour,
Boast of no other spoil but yonder shroud!"

Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'J,
Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran;

And say, while Memory weeps the blood-stainM

field, [man?Where lies the chief, and where the common

Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones,
And monumental trophies rais'd on high!

For Time confounds them with the crumbling bones,
That mix'd in hasty graves unnotie'd lie.

SONG...SAPPHO'S

Rests not heneath the turf the peasant's head,
Soft as the lord's beneath the lahour'd tomh?

Or sleeps one colder, in his close clay bed,
Than t'other in the wide vault's dreary womb?

Hither, let Luxury lead her loose-roh'd train;

Here flutter Pride, on purple-painted wings: And from the moral prospect learn—how vain

The wish, that sighs for suhlunary tiiings!

A soya.

Hi that Love hath never try'd,
Nor had Cupid for his guide,
Cannot hit the passage right
To the palace of delight.

What are honours, regal wealth,
Florid youth, and rosy health?
Without Love his trihute hring!,
Impotent, unmeaning things!

Gentle shepherds, persevere,
Still be tender, still sincere;
Love and Time, united, do
Wonders, if the heart be true.

SAPPHO'S HYMN TO VF.NV9

IMITATED.

Hah.! (with eternal heauty hlest!O'er Heav'n and Earth ador'd !) Hail, Venus! 'tis thy slave's request, Her peace may he restor'd: Break the fond honds, remove the rankling smart, And bid thy tyrant son from Sappho's soul depart.

Once you descended, queen of love,

At Sappho's hold desire. From the high roofs of sacred Jove, Thy ever glorious sire! I saw thy dusky pinion'd sparrows bear Thy chariot, rolling light, through the rejoicing air.

No transient visit you design'd,

Yonr wanton hirds depart; And with a look, divinely kind, That sooth'd my flutt'ring heart: *' Sappho," say you, " what sorrow breaks thy rest? How can I give relief to thy conflicting hreast?

"Is there a youth severely coy,

My fav'rite would subdue? Or has she lost some wand'ring hoy, To plighted vows untrue? Spread thy soft nets, the rambler shall return, And with new lighted flames, more fond, more fiercely hurn.

"Thy proffer'd gifts though he deride,

And scorn thy glowing charms, Soon shall his every art he try'd To win thee to his arms: Though he he now as cold as virgin snow, Toe victim, in his turn, shall like rous'd iE\na glow."

HYMN TO VENUS. 4i5Thee, goddess, I again invoke.
These mad desires remove!
Again I've felt the furious stroke
Of irresistless love:
Bid gentle peace to Sappho's hreast return,
Or make the youth she loves with mutual ardour
hurn.

IMITATIONS FROM ANACHEON,

ODE LVIII.

As I wove, with wanton care,
Fillets for a virgin's hair.
Culling for my fond design
What the fields had fresh and fine:
Cupid,—and I mark'd him well,
Hid him in a cowslip bell;
While he plum'd a pointed dart,
Fated to inflame the heart.

Glowing with malicious joy.
Sudden I securid the boy;
And, regardless of his cries,
Bore the little frighted prize
Where the mighty goblet stood,
Teeming with a rosy flood.

"Urchin," in my rage I cry'd, "What avails thy saucy pride? From thy husy veugeance free, Triumph now belongs to me! Thus—I drown thee in my cup; Thus—in wine I drink thee up."

Fatal was the nectar'd draught That to murder Love I quaff d. O'er my bosom's fond domains Now the cruel tyrant reigns: On my heart's most tender strings, Striking with his wanton wings, I'm for ever doom'd to prove All the insolence of love.

ODE IX.

THE DOVE.

"Titt me»u said I, " my beauteous Dove
(If an ambassadress from Love)
Tell me, on what soft errand sent,
Thy gentle flight is this way bent?

"Ambrosial sweets thy pinions shed As in the quivering breeze they spread !*

"A message," says the bird, " I bear
From fond Anacreon to the fair;
A virgin of celestial grace!
The Venus of the human race!

"Me, for an hymn, or amorous ode,
The Paphian Venus once bestow'd
To the sweet bard; for whom I'd fly
Unwearied to the furthest sky.

"Through the soft air he bade me glide,
(See, to my wing his billet's ty'd)
And told me, 'twas his kind decree,
When I return'd, to set me free.

"Twould prove me but a simple bird
To take Anacreon at his word:
Why should I hide me in the wood,
Or search for my precarious food.

When I 've my master's leave to stand
Cooing upon his friendly hand;
When I can be profusely fed
With crumbs of his ambrosial bread,
And, welcom'd to his nectar bowl,
Sip the rich drops that fire the soul;
Till, in fantastic rounds I spread
My fluttering pinions o'er his head?

"Or if he strike the trembling wire,
I perch upon my fav'rite lyre;
Till, lull'd into luxuriant rest,
Sleep steals upon my raptur'd breast.
"■ "Go, stranger—to your business—go,
I've told you all you wish'd to know:
Go, stranger,—and I think you '11 say,
This prattling Dove *s an arrant Jay."

THE DANCE.

Habk! the speaking strings invite,
Music calls us to delight:
See the maids in measures move,
Winding like the maze of love.
As they mingle, madly gay,
Sporting Hebe leads the way.

On each glowing cheek is spread
Rosy Cupid's native red;
And from ev'ry sparkling eye
Pointed darts at random fly.
Love, and active Youth, advance
Foremost in the sprightly dance.

As the magic numbers rise, Through my veins the poison flies; Raptures, not to be exprest, Revel in my th robbing breast. Jocund as we beat the ground, Love and Harmony go round.

Every maid (to crown his bliss) Gives her youth a rosy kiss; Such a kiss as might inspire Thrilling raptures—soft desire Such Adonis might receive, Such the queen of beauty gave, When the conquer'd goddess strove (In the conscious myrtle grove) To inflame the boy with love.

Let not pride our sports restrain, Banish hence the prude, Disdain! Think—ye virgins, if you 're coy, Think—ye rob yourselves of joy; Every moment you refuse, So much ecstasy you lose: Think—how fast these moments fly: If you should too long deny, Love and Beauty both will die.

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Now I'm in my armour cla«p'd,
Now the mighty lance is grasp'd,
But an Achiician spear
Would be ineffectual here,
While the poison'd arrows fly
Hot, as lightning from the sky.

Wounded, through the woods I run,
Follow'd still by Beauty's son,
Arrows in malignant showers
Still the angry urchin pours;
Till, exhausting all his store,
(When the quiver yields no more)
See the god—a living dart,
Shoots himself into my heart.

Freedom I must, now, resign, Victory, oh Love, is thine! What can outward actions win When the battle butus within!

Fat me that capacious cup,
Fill it, to the margin up;
From my veins the thirsty day
Quaffs the vital strength away.

Let a wreath my temples shield,
Fresh from the cnamell'd field;
These declining roses bow.
Blasted by my sultry brow.

Flow'rets, by their friendly aid,
From the sunbeams form a shade:
Let me from my heart require,
(Glowing with intense desire)
Is there, in the deepest grove,
Shelter from the Beams of Love?

ODE XXXIII. TO THE SWALLOW.

Soon as summer glads the sky,
Hither, gentle bird, yon fly,
And with golden sunshine blest,
Build your pretty plastcrM nest.

When the seasons cease to smile,
(Wing'd for Memphis or the Nile)
Charming bird, you disappear
Till the kind succeeding year.

Like the Swallow, Love, depart!
Respite for a while my heart.

No, he 'It never leave his nest,
Tyrant tenant of my breast!
There a thousand Wishes try
On their callow wings to fly;
There you may a thousand tell,
Pertly peeping through the shell i
In a state unfinish'd, rise
Thousands of a smaller size.

Till their noisy chirpings cease,
Never shall my heart have peace.

Feathei'd ones the younglings feed, Till mature they 're fit to breed; Then, to swell the crowded store, They produce their thousands more: Nor can mighty numbers count In my breast their vast amount.

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THEPICTURE:

A TALE.

A Po*t»ait, at my lord's command, Completed by a curious hand:For dabblers in the nice crrtu

His lordship set the piece to view, Bidding their connoisscurships tell.

Whether the work was finish'd well.

"Why"—says the loudest, " on my word, Tis not a likeness, good my lord;Nor, to be plain, for speak I must, Can I pronounce one feature just." Another effort straight was made, Another portraiture essay'd;The judges were again besought,

Kach to deliver what he thought,

"Worse than the first"—the critics bawl;"O what a mouth! how monstrous small!Look at the cheeks—how lank and thin!See, what a most prcpost'rous chin!" After remonstrance made in vain,

"I'll," says the painter, "once again, (If my good lord vouchsafes to sit) Try for a more successful hit:If you Ml to morrow deign to call, We '11 have a piece to please you all." To morrow comes—a picture 's plac'd

Before those spurious sons of Taste »

In their opinions all agree, This is the vilest of the three."Know—to confute your envious pride, (His lordship from the canvass cry'd)"Know—that it is my real face, Where you could no resemblance trace:I've try'd you by a lucky trick, And prov'd your Genius to the quick. Void of all judgment—justice—sense,

Out—ye pretending varlets—hence."

The connoisseurs depart in haste, i

Despis'd—detected—and disgrae'd.

THE HITCH:

A TA1.E.

A Witch, that from her ebon chair Could hurl destruction through the air, Or, at her all-commanding will, Make the tumultuous ocean still:Once, by an incantation fell, (As the recording Druids tell) Pluck'd the round Moon, whose radiant light Silver'd the sober noon of night, From the domain she held above,

Down to a dark, infernal grove.

"Give me," the goddess cry'd, "a cause, Why you disturb my sacred laws? Look at my train,—yon wand'ring host! See how the trembling stars are lost! Through the celestial regions wide, Why do they range without a guide! Chaos, from our confusion, may Hope for his old detested sway."

"I 'm," says the Witch, " severely crost, Know that my fav'rite squirrel '» lost:

Search for I" 11 have creation torn,

If he's not found before the morn."

Soon as the impious charge was giv'n— From the tremendous stores of Heaven,

Jove with a bolt revengeful! red!

Struck the detested monster dead.

If there are slaves to pity blind, With power enough to plague mankind, That for their own nefarious ends Tread upon Freedom and her friends, Let 'em beware the Witch's fate 1 When their presumption 's at the height, Jove will his angry powers assume, And the curs'd miscreants meet their doom.

REPUTATION:

AN ALLEGORY.

To travel far as the wide world extends,
Seeking for objects that deserv'd their care,

Virtue set forth, with two selected friends,
Talent refin'd, and Reputation fair.

As they went on, in their intended round.

Talent first spoke, " My gentle comrades, say, Where each of you may probably be found, Should accident divide us on the way.

"If torn (she added) from my lov'd allies, A friendly patronage I hope to find, Where the fine arts from cultivation rise,

And the sweet Muse hath harmoniz'd mankind."

Says Virtue, "Did Sincerity appear, Or meek-ey'd Charity among the great;Could I find courtiers from corruption clear,
'Tis among these I'd seek for my retreat.

"Could I find patriots, for the public weal
Assiduous, and without their selfish views;

Could I find priests of undissembled zeal,
'Tis among those my residence I'd choose.

"In glitt'ring domes let Luxury reside;

I must be found in some sequester'd cell, Far from the paths of Avarice or Pride,

Where homebred Happiness delights to dwell."

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When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies,
From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;
Nor did he revisit his bride, till the Sun
Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.
The !tose thus reproach'd him—" Already so cold I
How feign'd, O you false one, the passion you told!
'Tis an age since you left me:" she meant a few

hours;
But such we '11 suppoie the fond language of flowers:
"I saw when you gave the base violet a kiss:
How—how could you stoop to a meanness like this?
Shall a low, little wretch, whom we Roses despise,
Find favour, O Love! in my Butterfly's eyes?
On a tulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,
Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:
Dull daffodils too were with ardour address'd,
And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd."
The coxcomb was piqu'd, and reply'd with a sneer,
"That you 're first to complain, I commend you, my dear!But know, from your conduct my maxims I drew,
And if I 'm inconstant, I copy from you.
I saw the boy Zephirus rifle your charms,
I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;
The honey-bee kiss'd you, you cannot disown,
Vou favour'd besides—O dishonour!—a drone;
Yet worse—'tis a crime that you must not deny,
Your sweets were made common,false Rose, to a fly."

This law, long ago, did Love's providence make, That ev'ry coquet should be curs'd with a rake.

THE SHEEP AND THE BRAMBLE-BUSH:

A FAB IE.

A Thick-twisted brake, in the time of a storm,

Seem'd kindly to cover a sheep: So snug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm,

It quietly sooth'd him asleep.

The clouds are now seatter'd—the winds are at
The sheep to his pasture inclin'd: [peace;

But, ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,
His coat is left forfeit behind.

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,

Consider before you get in; Though judgment and sentence are pass'd on your

By Jove, you '11 be fleee'd to the skin. [side,

THE FOX AND THE CAT.

The Fox and the Cat, as they travell'd one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way:

"'Tis great," says the Fox, "to make justice our guide!" "How godlike is mercy!" Grimalkin reply'd.

Whilst thus they proceeded,—a wolf from the Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, [wood, Rush'd forth—as he saw the dull shepherd asleep, And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. "In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat, When mutton's at hand," says the wolf, " 1 must eat."

Grimalkin's astonish'd,—the Fox stood aghast, To see the fell beast at his bloody repast. "What a wretch," says the Cat,—" 'tis the vilest of brutes: Does he feed upon flesh, when there's herbagt

and roots?" Cries the Fox—" While our oaks give us acorns so

good, What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent blood!" Well, onward they march'd, and they moral iz'd still, Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill;Sly Renard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes, And made (spite of morals) a pullet his prize.

A mouse too, that chane'd from her covert to The greedy Grimalkin secur'd as her prey, [stray,

A spider that sat in her web on the wall, Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pity'd their fall; She cry'd—" Of such murders how guiltless am I!" So ran to regale on a new taken fly.

The faults of our neighbours with freedom we blame, But tax not ourselves, though we practise the same.

HYMEN.

When Chloe, with a blush, comply'd
To be the fond Nicander's bride,
His wild imagination ran
On raptures never known by man.
How high the tides of fancy swell,
Expression must despair to tell.

A painter cajl'd, Nicander cries, Descending from the radiant skies,
"Draw me a bright, a beauteous boy.
The herald of connubial joy I
Draw him with all peculiar care,
Make him beyond Adonis fair;
Give to his cheeks a roseate line,
Let him have eyes of heav'nly blue,
Lips soft'ning in nectarious dew;
A lustre o'er his charms display,
More glorious than the beams of day.
Expect, sir, if you can succeed,
A premium for a prince indeed."

His talents straight the painter try'd. And ere the nuptial knot was ty'd, A picture in the noblest taste Before the fond Nicander plae'd.

The lover thus arraign'd his skill, "Your execution's monstrous ill! A different form my fancy made; You 're quite a bungler at the trade. Where is the robe's luxuriant flow? Where is the cheek's celestial glow? Where are the looks so fond and free t 'Tis not an Hymen, sir, for me."

The painter bow'd—with this reply, "My colours an't, your honour, dry; When time has mellow'd ev'ry tint, 'Twill please you—or the deuce is in 'ti I Ml watch the happy change, and then Attend you with my piece again."

In a few months the painter came With a performance—(tiill the sauic.)

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