"While the mild rose, more safely growing,

Low in its unaspiring vale,
Amid retirement's shelter blowing,
Exchanges sweets with every gale.

"Wish not for Beauty's darling features, Moulded by Nature's partial pow'r, For fairest forms 'mong human creatures Shine but the pageants of an hour.

"I saw the pride of all the meadow,
At noon, a gay narcissus, blow
Upon a river's bank, whose shadow
Bloom'd in the silver waves below;

"By noontide's heat its youth was wasted, The waters, as they pass'd, complain'd;

At eve, its glories all were blasted,
And not one former tint remain'd.

"Nor let vain Wit's deceitful glory

Lead you from Wisdom's path astray; What genius lives renown'd in story, To happiness who found the way?

"In yonder mead behold that vapour, Whose vivid beams illusive play,

Far off it seems a friendly taper,

To guide the trav❜ller on his way;

"But should some hapless wretch, pursuing,

Tread where the treach'rous meteors glow,

He'd find, too late, his rashness rueing,
That fatal quicksands lurk below.

"In life such bubbles nought admiring,
Gilt with false light, and fill'd with air,
Do you, from pageant crowds retiring,
To Peace in Virtue's cot repair.

"There seek the never-wasted treasure Which mutual love and friendship give, Domestic comfort, spotless pleasure,

And blest and blessing you will live.

"If Heav'n with children crowns your dwelling, As mine its bounty does with you,

In fondness fatherly excelling,

Th' example you have felt, pursue."

He paus'd-for tenderly caressing

The darling of his wounded heart,
Looks had means only of expressing
Thoughts, language never could impart.

Now Night, her mournful mantle spreading,
Had rob'd in black th' horizon round,
And dank dews from her tresses shedding,

With genial moisture bath'd the ground;

When back to city follies flying,
'Midst custom's slaves he liv'd resign'd,
His face, array'd in smiles, denying
The true complexion of his mind.

For seriously around surveying

Each character, in youth and age, Of fools betray'd, and knaves betraying, That play'd upon this human stage.

(Peaceful himself and undesigning) He loath'd the scenes of guile and strife, And felt each secret wish inclining

To leave this fretful farce of life.

Yet to whate'er above was fated,
Obediently he bow'd his soul,

For, what all-bounteous Heaven created,
He thought Heaven only should control.

THE PASSIONS.

AN ODE.

BY COLLINS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The PASSIONS oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell,

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd heyond the Muses' painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

First, FEAR his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made,

Next, ANGER rush'd, his eyes, on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan DESPAIR-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits-by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O HOPE! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song:
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And HOPE, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden

hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
REVENGE impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat: And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected PITY, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice apply'd,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien;

While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting

from his head.