And destin'd all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,
Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray,
And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

"Tis Providence alone secures

In ev'ry change both mine and yours:
Safety consists not in escape

From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man, that's strangled by a hair.
Fate steals along with silent tread,
Found oft'nest in what least we dread;
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

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, nor pray'rs persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when past,

And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in ev'ry part,

A diff'rence strikes at length the musing heart:
Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound,
How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd!
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a weary 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 destin❜d course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes,
Pure-bosom'd as that wat'ry glass,
And heav'n reflected in her face.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

To MRS. (now LADY) THROCKMORTON:

MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd 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 possess'd, Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part:
Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in ev'ry 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 fulfill'd.

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 stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow. Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies,

Combin'd with millions more,

To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy ther
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,
So soon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left may shine
With equal grace below.