None here is happy but in part:
Full 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?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impelled through regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow.

Ordained perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combined 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 passed 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.

PAIRING-TIME ANTICIPATED.

A FABLE.

I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau,*
If birds confabulate or no;

'Tis clear, that they were always able
To hold discourse, at least in fable;

And e'en the child, who knows no better
Than to interpret by the letter,

A story of a cock and bull,

Must have a most uncommon skull.

* It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?

It chanced, then, on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design

To forestal sweet St. Valentine,

In many an orchard, copse, and grove,
Assembled on affairs of love,

And with much twitter and much chatter,
Began to agitate the matter.

At length a Bulfinch, who could boast
More years and wisdom than the most,
Entreated, opening wide his beak,
A moment's liberty to speak;
And, silence publicly enjoined,
Delivered briefly thus his mind:

My friends! be cautious how
The subject upon which we meet
I fear we shall have winter yet.

ye

treat

A Finch, whose tongue knew no control,
With golden wing, and satin poll,

A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried
What marriage means, thus pert replied:
Methinks the gentleman, quoth she,
Opposite, in the apple tree,

By his good will would keep us single
Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle,

Or (which is likelier to befall)

Till death exterminate us all.
I marry without more ado,.

My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation.

Their sentiments so well expressed
Influenced mightily the rest,—
All paired, and each pair built a nest.
But though the birds were thus in haste
The leaves came on not quite so fast,
And Destiny, that sometimes bears
An aspect stern on man's affairs,
Not altogether smiled on theirs.
The wind, of late breathed gently forth,
Now shifted east, and east by north;
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,
Could shelter them from rain or snow,
Stepping into their nests, they paddled,
Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled;
Soon every father bird, and mother,
Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other,
Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met,
And learned in future to be wiser,
Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL.

Misses the tale that I relate

This lesson seems to carry-—--
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry.

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FABLE.

THE noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,

When, 'scaped from literary cares,
I wandered on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,

(Two nymphs* adorned with every grace That spaniel found for me)

Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,

Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.

With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains

With fixed considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I returned;
Beau, trotting far before,

• Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.