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For you I'll cast these waking thoughts away,

For one wild dream of life's romantic morn. ·Ah! no: the sunshine o'er each objecl spread,

By flattering Hope, the flowers that blew so fair, Like the gay gardens of Armida fled,

And vanish'd from the powerful rod of Care, So the poor pilgrim, who in rapturous thought

Plains his dear journey to Loretto's Shrine, Seems on his way by guardian seraphs brought,

Sees aiding angels favour his design. Ambrosial blossoms, such of old as blew

By those fresh founts on Eden's happy plain, And Sharon's roses all his passage strew :

So Fancy dreams; but Fancy's dreams are vain. Wafted and weary on the mountain's side,

His way unknown, the hapless pilgrim lies,
Or takes fonie ruthless robber for his guide,

And prone beneath his cruel sabre dies.
Life's morning-landscape, gilt with orient light,

Where Hope, and Joy, and Fancy hold their reign, The grove's green wave, the blue stream sparkling bright,

The blithe hours dancing round Hyperion's wain, In radiant colours youth's free hand pourtrays,

Then holds the flattering tablet to his eye; Nor thinks how foon the vernal grove decays,

Nor sees the dark cloud gathering o'er the sky, Hence Fancy conquer'd by the dart of Pain,

And wandering far from her Platonic shade, Mourns o’er the ruins of her transient reign,

Nor uprepining sees her visions fade,

Their parent banish’d, hence her children fly,

The fairy race that fill?d her festive train ;
Joy tears his wreath, and Hope inverts her eye,

And Folly wonders that her dream was vain.


From the Fables of Flora.

THERE are that love the fhades of life,

And thun the fplendid walks of fame; There are that hold it rueful ftrife

To risque Ambition's losing game : That far from Envy's lurid eye

The fairest fruits of Genius rear, Content to see them bloom and die

In Friendship’s small, but genial, fphere. Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far,

The Evening Primrose suns the day; Blooms only to the western star, ,

And loves its solitary ray. In Eden's vale an aged hind,

At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-fmoothed staff reclin'd,

With wonder view'd the opening flower. “ Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow !”

In pity's simple thought he cries; “ Thy bosom must not feel the glow “Of splendid suns, or smiling skies.


“ Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,

• The hamlet's little train behold; " Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,

“ When thine the falling Thades unfold. . ! « Nor thee the bafty Thepherd heeds,

“ When love has fill'd his heart with cares, “ For flowers he rifles all the meads,

“ For waking flowers—but thine forbears. “ Ah! walte no more that bcauteous bloom

“On night's chill shade, that fragrant breath, “ Let smiling funs those gems illume!

“ Fair flower, to live unseen is death !"

Soft as the voice of vernal gales,

That o'er the bending meadows blow, Or streams that steal through even vales,

And murmur that they more to now :
Deep in her unfrequented bower,

Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain;
The bird of eve approv'd her flower,
And answered thus the anxious twain :-

Live unseen!
By moon-light shades, in vallies green,

Lovely flower, we'll live unseen!
Of our pleasures deem not lightly,
Laughing day may look more prightly,

But I love the modeft m en,

Still I love the modeft mien
Of gentle Ev'ning fair, and ber ftar-train'd queca.

Dida thou, Shepherd never find,
Pleasure is of pensiye kind ?

Has thy cottage never known,
That she loves to live alone?
Doft thou not, at evening hour, -
Feel fome soft and secret power,
Gliding o'er thy yielding mind,
Leave sweet serenity behind;
While, all disarm'd, the cares of day
Steal through the falling gloom away?
Love to think thy lot was laid
In this undistinguish'd shade.
Far from the world's mfectious view,
Thy little virtues safely blew.
Go, and in day's more dangerous hour
Guard thy emblematic flower.


From the Fables of Flora.

kb WH

W HY Joves my flower, the sweetest flower,

“That swells the golden breast of May, “Thrown rudely o'er yon ruiu'd tower

“To waste her solitary day? " Why, when the mead, the spicy vale,

“ The grove and genial garden call, " Will the her fragrant foul exhale,

“Unheeded on the lonely wall ? " For never sure was beauty born

" To live in death's deserted thade! “ Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn, “My banks for life and beauty made."

Thus Pity wak'd the tender thought,

And by her sweet persuasion led To seize the hermit-flower I fought,

And bear her from her sony bed. I fought-but sudden on mine ear

A voice in hollow murmurs broke, And fmote my heart with holy fear

The GENIUS of the Ruin spoke. « From thee be far th' ungentle deed,

“ The honours of the dead to spoil, « Or take the sole remaining meed,

“ The flower that crowns their former toil! “ Nor deem that flower the garden's foc,

“ Or fond to grace this barren frade ; 46 'Tis Nature tells her to bestow

“ Her honours on the lonely dead. 6. For this, obedient Zephyrs bear

“ Her light seeds round yon turret’s mould, " And undispers'd by tempests there,

“ They rise in vegetable gold. * Nor shall thy wonder wake to see

« Such desert scenes diftin&ion crave; « Oft have they been, and oft shall be,

“ Truth's, Honour's Valour's, Beauty's grave. “ Where longs to fall that rifted spire,

“ As weary of th' insulting air ; 6. The poet's thought, the warrior's fire,

“ The lover's fighs are freeping there. hs When that too shakes the trembling ground,

ab Born down by some tempestuous sky, ,

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