Flies o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence; not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade.
Ascends; but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only; for th'attentivę mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious; wont so soft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order; to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd pow's
Refine at length, and ev'ry passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien,
But to ampler prospects, if to gaze
Op nature's form, where negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations, if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her gen❜rous powers?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sua's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what th'eternal MAKER has ordain'd
The pow'rs of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orh
Of life and being, to be great like Him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's works instruct, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.

AKEN IDE

CHAPTER V.

PATHETIC PIECES,

SECTION I

THE HERMIT

AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:

"Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, tho he felt as a man.

"Ah why all abandon'd to darkness and woe;
Why lone Philomela that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom intbral.

But if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away; Full quickly they pass-but they never return

New gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays; But lately I mark'd when majestic on high,

She shope, and the planets were lost in her blaze.

Roll on thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendor again;
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ab fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

«Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

I mourn, but ye woodlands I mourn not for you ;,

For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfum'd with fresh flagrance, and glitt’ring with dew,

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I moura;
Kird nature the embryo blossom will save;
But when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn?
O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave.

'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade Destruction before me, and sorrow behind,

O pity, great Father of light, then I cry'd,

Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee Lo, hambled in dust, I relinquish my pride;

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.

“And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn-
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn..

See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,"

SECTION II.

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man,

BEATTIE

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door ;-
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store,

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years
And many a furrow in my grief worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears

Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect, drew me from my road;
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
There, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh take me to your hospitable 'dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold,
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably, old.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be represt..

Heav'n sends misfortunes, why should we repine?
'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see *
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot;

Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn
But ab! Oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,"
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair!
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

ANON.

SECTION III.

UNHAPPY CLOSE OF LIFE.

How shocking must thy summons be O Death
To him that is at ease in his possessions!
Who counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnished for the world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the wall of her clay tenement;
Runs to each avenue and shrieks for help;
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving now no longer her's!
A little longer; yet a little longer;
O might she stay to wash away her stains;
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and ev'ry groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close thro ev'ry lane of life;
Nor misses once the track, but presses on,
Till forc'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

SECTION IV.

ELEGY TO PITY.

HAIL lovely pow'r whose bosom heaves the sigh,
When fancy paints the scene of deep distress;
Whose tears spontaneous cristalize the eye,
When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless.

Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey

From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare;
Not dew drops glitt'ring in the morning ray,
Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear.

Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play:
Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies;
No blood-stain'd trades mark thy blameless way,
Beneath thy feet po hapless insect dies.