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As woodbine weds the plant within her reach,

Rough elm, or smooth-grained ash, or glossy beech,

In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and lays

Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays,

But does a mischief while she lends a grace,

Straitening its growth by such a strict embrace;

So love, that clings around the noblest minds,

Forbids the advancement of the soul he binds;

The suitor's air indeed he soon improves,

And forms it to the taste of her he loves,

Teaches his eyes a language, and no less

Refines his speech and fashions his address;

But farewell promises of happier fruits,

Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits;

Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break,

His only bliss is sorrow for her sake;

Who will may pant for glory and excel,

Her smile his aim, all higher aims farewell!

Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever name

May least offend against so pure a flame,

Though sage advice of friends the most sincere

Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear,

And lovers of all creatures, tame or wild,

Can least brook management, however mild,

Yet let a poet (poetry disarms

The fiercest animals with magic charms)

Hisque an intrusion on thy pensive mood,
And woo and win thee to thy proper good.
Pastoral images and still retreats,
Umbrageous walks and solitary seats,
Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streamy-
Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day dreams,
Are all enchantments in a case like thine,
Conspire against thy peace with one design,
Sooth thee to make thee but a surer prey,
And feed the fire, that wastes thy powers away.
Up—God has formed thee with a wiser view,
Not to be led in chains, but to subdue,
Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first
Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst.
Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow
When he designed a paradise below,
The richest earthly boon his hands afford,
Deserves to be beloved, but not adored.
Post away swiftly to more active scenes,
Collect the scattered truths that study gleans,
Mix with the world, but with its wiser part,
No longer give an image all thine heart;
Its empire is not her's, nor is it thine,
TLs God's just claim, prerogative divine.

Virtuous and faithful Heberden! whose skill Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil,

VOL. III. B

Gives melancholy up to nature's care,

And sends the patient into purer air.

Look where he comes—in this embowered alcove

Stand close concealed, and see a statue move:

Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow,

Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below,

Interpret to the marking eye distress,

Such as its symptoms can alone express.

That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue

Could argue once, could jest or join the song,

Could give advice, could censure or commend,

Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.

Renounced alike its office and its sport,

Its brisker and its graver strains fall short;

Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway,

And like a summer-brook are past away.

This is a sight for pity to peruse,

Till she resemble faintly what she views,

Till sympathy contract a kindred pain,

Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain.

This, of all maladies that man infest,

Claims most compassion, and receives the least:

Job felt it, when he groaned beneath the rod

And the barbed arrows of a frowning God;

And such emollients as his friends could spare,

•friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare.

Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never feel,

Kept snug in caskets of close-hammered steel, • •

With mouths made only to grin wide and eat,

And minds, that deem derided pain a treat,

With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire,

And wit, that puppet-prompters might inspire,

Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke

On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke.

But with a soul, that ever felt the sting

Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing:

Not to molest, or irritate, or raise

A laugh at his expense, is slender praise;

He, that has not usurped the name of man,

Does all, and deems too little all, he can,

To assuage the throbbings of the festered part,

And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart.

'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose,

Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes;

Man is an harp whose chords elude the sight,

Each yielding harmony disposed aright;

The screws reversed (a task which if he please

God in a moment executes with ease),

Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose,

Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.

Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair

As ever recompensed the peasant's care,

Nor soft declivities with tufted hills,

Nor view of waters turning busy mills,

Parks in which art preceptress nature weds.

Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds,

Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves,

And waft it to the mourner as he roves,

Can call up life into his faded eye,

That passes all he sees unheeded by:

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels,

No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals.

And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill,

That yields not to the touch of human skill,

Improve the kind occasion, understand

A Father's frown, and kit,s his chastening hand:

To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon,

The purple evening and resplendent moon,

The stars, that sprinkled over the vault of night,

Seem drops descending in a shower of light,

Shine not, or undesired and hated shine,

Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine:

Yet seek him, in his favour life is found,

All bliss beside a shadow or a sound:

Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth,

Shall seem to start into a second birth!

Nature, assuming a more lovely face,

Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace,

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