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Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but fincere,
Not fcorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could time, his flight reverfed, reftore the hours, When, playing with thy vefture's tiffued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jeffamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou waft happier than myself the while,
Wouldft foftly speak, and ftroke my head and fmile)
Could thofe few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one with bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not truft my heart-the dear delight
Seems fo to be defired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is fuch,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I fhould ill requite thee to conftrain
Thy unbound fpirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coaft
(The ftorms all weathered and the ocean croffed)
Shoots into port at fome well-havened ifle,
Where fpices breathe and brighter feafons fmile,
There fits quiefcent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incenfe play
Around her, fanning light her ftreamers gay;
So thou, with fails how swift! haft reached the shore,
Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy loved confort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long fince, has anchored at thy fide.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always diftreffed -
Me howling winds drive devious, tempeft toffed,
Sails ript, feams opening wide, and compass loft,
And day by day fome current's thwarting force
Sets me more diftant from a profperous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boaft is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretenfions rise-
The son of parents paffed into the skies.
And now, farewell-time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not fought in vain,
I feem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the fin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy ftill are free,
And I can view this mimic fhew of thee,
Time has but half fucceeded in his theft→
Thyfelf removed, thy power to foothe me left.
PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
A STRANGER'S purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise.
To give the creature her Creator's due
Were fin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or ev'n to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for fally's use defigned,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.
The path of forrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where forrow is unknown; No traveller ever reached that bleft abode, Who found not thorns and briars in his road. The world may dance along the flowery plain, Cheered as they go by many a sprightly ftrain,
Where Nature has her moffy velvet fpread,
With unfhod feet they yet fecurely tread,
Admonished, fcorn the caution and the friend,
Bent upon pleasure, heedlefs of its end.
Bat he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How flow to learn the dictates of his love,
That hard by nature and of ftubborn will,
A life of eafe would make them harder still,
In pity to the finners he defigned
To reicue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their years,
And faid, "go fpend them in the vale of tears."
Oh balmy gales of foul-reviving air,
Oh falutary ftreams that murmur there,
Thefe flowing from the fount of grace above,
Thofe breathed from lips of everlasting love!
The flinty foil indeed their feet annoys,
And fudden forrow nips their fpringing joys,
An envious world will interpofe its frown
Tom delights fuperior to its own,
And many a pang, experienced ftill within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, fin;
But ills of every fhape and every name
Transformed to bleffings mifs their cruel aim,
And every moment's calm, that fooths the break,
Is given in carneft of eternal reft.
Ah, be not fad, although thy lot be caft Far from the flock, and in a diftant waste! No fhepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd is for ever near; Thy tender forrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ; Thy tears all iffue from a fource divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine'Twas thus in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,
And drought on all the drooping herbs around.