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LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

AUTHOR OF “THE BOTAŞIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,* (poets, by report,

Not oft so well agree,)
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court!

Conspire to honour thee.
They best can judge a poet's worth,
!! Who oft themselves have known

• The pangs of a poetic birth ''. By labours of their own.

We therefore pleased extol thy song,
. Though various, yet complete,

Rich in embellishment as strong, ii. And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,

Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would—they must at thine.
But we, in mutual bondage knit

Of friendship's closest tie,
r Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundiced eye; * Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accom. panied these lines.

VOL. VII.

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,

And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for thee,

Unworthy of his own.

ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The birds put off their every hue
To dress a room for Montagu.

The peacock sends his heavenly dyės,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The pheasant plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The cock his arch'd tail's azure show;
And, river-blanch'd, the swan his snow.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,
Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But, screen'd from every storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.

To the same patroness resort, Secure of favour at her court, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigour move, Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jovem Imagination scattering round Wild roses over furrow'd ground, Which Labour of his frown beguile, And teach Philosophy a smileWit flashing on Religion's side, Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, The gem, though luminous before, Obtrude on human notice more, Like sunbeams on the golden height Of some tall temple playing brightWell tutor'd Learning, from his books Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks, Their order on his shelves exact, Not more harmonious or compact Than that to which he keeps confined The various treasures of his mind-All these to Montagu's repair, Ambitious of a shelter there. There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, Their ruffled plumage calm refit, (For stormy troubles loudest roar Around their flight who highest soar,) And in her eye, and by her aid, Shine safe without a fear to fade.

She thus maintains divided sway
With yon bright regent of the day;
The Plume and Poet both we know
Their lustre to his influence owe;
And she the works of Phæbus aiding,
Both Poet saves and Plume from fading.

VERSES

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his

solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez.

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the sea

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude ! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see ;
They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love..

Divinely bestow'd upon man, (), had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell

These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appear’d.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is the glance of the mind !

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.

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