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Though Boitow, poverty, neglect—
Now seem to wrap their souls in shade ;-
Let these look upward, undismay'd,
From thorny paths in anguish trod,
To regions where—in light array'd,
Still dwells their Saviour, and their God.

Sport on then, lovely Summer fly,
With whom hegan my votive strain :—
Yet purer joys their hopes supply,
Who, hy Faith's alchemy, ohtain
Comfort in sorrow, hliss in pain,
Freedom in hondage, light in gloom,
Through earthly losses, heavenly gain,
And Life Immortal throogh the Tome.


The active Bee on summer morn,
Ranges o'er field and verdant lawn;
Studious to hushand every hour,
And make the most of every flower.
Nimhle from stalk to stalk she flies,
And loads with yellow wax her thighs;
Or from the cowslip's golden hells,
Sacks honey to eurich her cells;
Or every tempting rose pursues,
Or sips the lily's fragrant dews,
Yet never rohs the shining hloom,
Or of its heauty or perfume.
Thos she performs in every way,
The various duties of the day.



Turn on the prudent ant thy heedful eyes,
Ohserve her lahours sluggard and he wise:
No stern command, no monitory voice,
Prescrihes her duties, or directs her choice;
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away,
To snatch the hlessings of a plenteous day.
When fruitful summer loads the teeming

plain, She crops the harvest, and she stores the



Little iumate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
VVheresoe'er he thine ahode,
Always harhinger of good;
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall he exprest,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curions snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the hest;
Frisking thus hefore the fire,
Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they he
Formed as if akin to thee,
Thou surpasses!, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Their*s is hut a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day,
Puts a period to thy play:
Sing then—and extend thy span
Far heyond the date of man :—
Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,
Lives not, aged though he he,
Haifa span, compared with thee.



Bright Stranger, welcome to my field, Here feed in safely, here thy radiance yield;

To me, O nightly he thy splendour giv'n: O could a wish of mine the skies command, How would I gem thy leaf with liheral hand,

With every sweetest dew of Heaven!

Say, dost thoa kindly light the Fairy train,
Amidst their gamhols on the stilly plain,
Hanging thy lamp upon the moisien'd
What lamp so fit, so pare as thine,
Amidst the gentle elfin hand to shine,
And chase the horrors of the midnight

Oh may no feather'd foe disturh thy how'r,
And with harharian heak thy life devour;

Oh may no ruthless torrent of the sky, O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy

seat, Nor tempest tear thee from thy green retreat, And hid thee, midst the humming myriads die.

Queen of the insect world! what leaves delight?

Of such these willing hands a how'r shall form,

To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,

And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.

Sweet child of stiliness! 'midst the awful

calm Of pansing nature, thou art pleas'd to dwell! In happy silence to enjoy that halm, And shed thros life a lustre found thy cell.

How different man! the imp of noise, and

strife, Who courts the storm, that tears and

darkens life, Blest when the passions wild the son! in

vade; How nohler far to hid those whirlwinds

cease, To taste like thee the luxury of peace, And shine in solitude and shade!

Disputes have heen, and still prevail,
From whence his rays proceed;

Some give that honour to his tail,
And others to his head.

Bat this is sure—the hand of might,

That kindles op the skies. Gives him a modicam of light,

Proportioned to his size.

Perhaps indulgent nature meant,
By such a lamp hestowed,

To hid the traveller as he west,
Be careful where he trod ;—

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light
Might serve, however small,

To shew a stumhling stone hy night, And save him from a fall.

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine

Is legihle and plain,
'Tis power almighty hids him shine,

Nor hids him shine in vain.

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme
Teach humhler thoughts to you,

Since such a reptile has its gem,
And hoasts its splendour too.



Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray; That shews hy night a lucid heam,

Which disappears hy day.

A Niohtingale, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm hy his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent—
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,-
"As much as I your minstrelsy,

** You would ahhor to do me wrong,
** As much as I to spoil your song;
** For 'twas the self-same power divine,
** Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
** That you with music, I with light,
** Might heautify and cheer the night."
Xhe songster heard this short oration,

And warhling out his approhation,
Released him, as my story tells.

And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn,
Their real interest to discern;

That hrother should not war with hrother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine hy sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians hest deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, hoth the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.



Minutest of the fcather'd kind,
Possessing every charm comhin'd,
"Nature, in forming thee, design'd

That thou should'st he
A proof within how little space,
She can comprise such perfect grace,
Rendering thy lovely fairy race,

Beauty's epitome.

Those hurnish'd colours to hestow,

Her pencil in the heavenly how

She dipp'd; and made thy plumes to glow

With every hue That in the dancing sun-heam plays: And with the ruhy's vivid hlaze, Mingled the emerald's lucid rays

With halcyon hlue

Then placed thee under genial skies,
Where flowers and shruhs spontaneous rise
With richer fragrance, holder dyes,

By her endued;
And hade thee pass thy happy hours
In tamarind shades, and palmy howers,
Extracting from unfailing flowers
Amhrosial food.

There, lovely Bee-hird! may'st thou rove
Thro' spicy vale, and citron grove,
And woo, and win thy fluttering love

With plume so hright; There rapid fly, more heard than seen, Mid orange houghs of polished green, With glowing fruit, and flowers hetween

Of purest white.

There feed, and take thy halmy rest,
There weave thy little cotton nest,
And may no cruel hand molest

Thy timid hride;
Nor those hright changeful plumes of thine
Be oflFer'd on the unfeeling shrine,
Where some dark heauty loves to shine

In gaudy pride.

Nor may her sahle lover's care

Add to the hauhles in her hair

Thy dazzling feathers rich and rare;

And thou, poor hird, For this inhuman purpose hleed; While gentle hearts ahhor the deed, And mercy's tremhling voice may plead,

But plead unheard!

Such trifleis should he taught to know.
Not all the hues thy plumes can show
Becomes them like the conscious glow

Of modesty:


And that not half so lovely seems
The ray that from the diamond gleams,
As the pure gem that tremhling heams
In pity's eye!



Sweet Bird, whom the winter constrains—

And seldom another it can—

To seek a retreat, while he reigns,

In the well-shelter' d dwellings of man.

Who never can seem to intrude,
Though in all places equally free,
Come, oft as the season is rude,
Thou art sure to be weleome to me.

At sight of the first feehle ray,
That pierces the clouds of the east,
To inveigle thee every day,
My windows shall shew thee a feast.

For, tanght hy experience, I know
Thee mindful of henefit long;
And that, thankful for all I hestow,
Thou wilt pay me with many a song.

Then, soon as the swell of the huds
Bespeaks the renewal of spring,
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,
Or where it shall please thee to sing :—

And should'st thou, com pell M hy a frost,
Gome again to my window or door,
Douht not an affectionate host,
Only pay as thou pay'dat me hefore.

Thus music must needs he confess'd
To flow from a fountain ahove;
Else how should it work in the hreast
Unchangeahle friendship and love?

And who on the glohe can he found,
Save your generation and ours,
That can he delighted hy sound,
Or hoasts any musical powers?


Sweet Rohin! I hail thy appearance once more,
Come sing in my garden, or peck at my door;
Tho' an ingrate for favours so often conferr'd,
I still view with pleasure my favourite hird.

When the last winter's tempest rush'd down from the sky,

Thou stood'st at my window with pitiful eye;

The hread from my tahle unspariag I cast,

And thought that one friend might he faithful at last.

Thy contemplative look, 'twas my joy to hehold,
Thy flight long repress'd, and thy plumage of gold;
And the oftener thou cam'st from thy dwelling unknown,
The more weleome thou wast to the crumhs I had thrown-

The mild hreath of spring, from their covert profound,
Call'd the leaves into light and hespangled the ground;
Ah! then, 'mid the hlaze of prosperity's reign,
I sought for my Rohin, hut sought him in vain I


Now that summer is past and the forest is hare
At my window thon stand'st, a sad spectacle there;
Cold and shivering my pardon thon seem'st to implore,
And to ask for the hand that once fed thee hefore.

Come hanish thy grief, nor past folly hewail,
My love is a store-house that never shall fail;
At evening, at morning, at noon, and at night,
To feed my sweet hird shall still give me delight.

Ah 1 why should I thus thine inconstancy chide i
Have I no conviction of crimes deeper dyed?
Tho' of Reason possess'i! and Instruction Divine,
My spirit is far more ungrateful than thine.

From the moment since first I this vital air drew,
One Friend has preserv'd and supported me too;
Yet how often have I, whilst I sumptuously fared,
Forgotten the Hand that my hanquet prepared.


Hare in the vale I hear thy evening song,
Sweet Nightingale f It s'oothes my pensive

Dost thou from day's gay flatterers retire,
As I from tumult of the husy world,
To pour thy sad note on the evening gale?
Night, and this still serene full well accord

With feelings such as ours. It is a calm
Healthful and sweet to nature, when the soul
Plumes all her powers, and imps her droop-
ing wing
For other climes. Yes, songstress of the

We hoth alike are here hrief sojourners
Waiting the season of our happier change.
Yet from the lone spray cheer the vale

And listening t will learn content from thee.



Light from the sod the Lark exulting springs,
Joy tunes his voice and animates his wings;
Bard of the hlushing dawn, to him are giv'n
Earth's choicest verdure and the midway heav'n:
Hark! the glad strains that charm our wond'ring ears
As upward still the minstrel fearless steers,
'Till wide careering throngh the solar stream
A speck, he wanders on the morning heam.

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