But these I'll leave to be thy guide,

And show thee where the jas'mine spreads
Her snowy leaf, where May-flow'rs hide,
And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.
With me the mountain's summit scale,
And taste the wild-thyme's honey'd bloom,
Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,
Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.

Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!
What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?
Once, me alone thou wish'd to please,
And with me only thou would'st stray.

But while thy long delay I mourn,

And chide the sweet shades for their guile, Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn, And fairy favours court thy smile.

The tiny queen of fairy-land,

Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far, To bring, or ere the night-watch stand, Rich essence for her shadowy car;

Perchance her acorn-cups to fill

With nectar from the Indian rose,
Or gather, near some haunted rill,
May-dews that lull to sleep love's woes.
Oro'er the mountains bade thee fly,
To tell her fairy love to speed,
When evening hangs upon the sky,
To dance along the twilight-mead.

But now I see thee sailing low,

Gay as the brightest flow'rs in spring, Thy coat of blue and jet I know,

And well thy gold and purple wing.

Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me;
O! welcome, welcome to my home!

In lily's cell we'll live in glee;

Together o'er the mountains roam

COME, Melancholy! silent pow'r,
Companion of my lonely hour,
To sober thought confin'd:
Thou sweetly sad ideal guest,
In all thy soothing charms confest,
Indulge my pensive mind.

No longer wildly hurried thro'
The tides of mirth, that ebb and flow,
In Folly's noisy stream:

I from the busy crowd retire,

To court the objects that inspire
Thy philosophic dream.-

Thro'

yon dark grove of mournful yews

With solitary steps I muse,

By thy direction led:

Here, cold to pleasure's tempting forms,

Can 'sociate with my sister worms,

And mingle with the dead,

Ye midnight horrors! awful gloom!
Ye silent regions of the tomb,
My future peaceful bed:
Here shall my weary eyes be clos'd,
And every sorrow lie repos'd

In death's refreshing shade.

Ye pale inhabitants of night,
Before my intellectual sight

In solemn pomp ascend:
O tell how trifling now appears
The train of idle hopes and fears,
That varying life attend!

Ye faithless idols of our sense,
Here own how vain your fond pretence,
Ye empty names of joy!
Your transient forms like shadows pass,
Frail offspring of the magic glass,
Before the mental eye.

The dazzling colours, falsely bright,
Attract the gazing vulgar sight
With superficial state:

Thro' reason's clearer optics view'd,
How stript of all its pomp, how rude.
Appears the painted cheat.

Can wild ambition's tyrant pow'r,
Or ill-got wealth's superfluous store,
The dread of death controul ?
Can pleasure's sore bewitching charms
Avert or soothe the dire alarms

That shake the parting soul?

Religion! o'er the hand of fate
Shall make reflection plead too late,
My erring senses teach,
Amidst the flatt'ring hopes of youth,
To meditate the solemn truth,

These awful relics preach.

Thy penetrating beams disperse
The mist of error, whence our fears
Derive their fatal spring:

'Tis thine the trembling heart to warm,
And soften to an angel form,
The pale terrific king.

When sunk by guilt in sad despair,
Repentance breathes her humble prayer,
And owns thy threat'ning just:
Thy voice the shudd'ring suppliant chears,
With mercy calms her tott'ring fears,
Ahd lifts her from the dust.

Sublim'd by thee, the soul aspires
Beyond the range of low desires,
In nobler views elate:

Unmov'd her destin'd change surveys,
And, arm'd by faith, intrepid, pays
The universal debt.

In death's soft slumber, lull'd to rest,
She sleeps, by smiling visions blest,
That gently whisper peace:-
'Till the last morn's fair op'ning ray
Unfolds the bright eternal day
Of active life and bliss,

REFLECTIONS.

ROBINSON.

AH! who has pow'r to say,
To-morrow's sun shall warmer glow,
And o'er this gloomy vale of woe
Diffuse a brighter ray?

Ah! who is ever sure,

Though all that can the soul delight, This hour enchants the wond'ring sight, These raptures will endure?

Is there in life's dull toil,

One certain moment of repose,

One ray to dissipate our woes,

And bid Reflection smile?

What is the mind of man?

A chaos where the passions blend, Unconscious where the mass will end, Or when it first began!

In childhood's thoughtless hours

We frolic through the sportive day; Each path enchanting, sunny, gay, All deck'd with gaudy flow'rs!

In life's maturer prime

We wander still in search of peace; And, as our weary toils increase, Fade in the glooms of time.

From scene to scene we stray,

Still courting pleasure's fickle smile, While she, delighting to beguile, Still farther glides away.

We seek Hope's gentle aid,

We think the lovely phantom pours Her balmy incense on those flow'rs, Which blossom but to fade!

We court Love's thrilling dart,

And when we think our joys supreme, We find its raptures but a dreamIts boon a wounded heart.

We pant for glitt'ring Fame,

And when pale envy blots the page That might have charm'd a future age, We find 'tis but a name,