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Sons of honour, fed on praises,
Flutt'ring high in fancied worth,
Lo! the fickle air, that raises,
Brings us down to parent earth.

Learned sophs, in systems jaded,

Who for new ones daily call,
Cease, at length, by us persuaded,
Ev'ry leaf must have its fall.

Youths, tho' yet no losses grieve you,

Gay in health and manly grace,
Let not cloudless skies deceive you,
Summer gives to Autumn place.
Venerable sires, grown hoary,

Hither turn th' unwilling eye,
Think, amidst your falling glory,
Autumn tells a Winter nigh.

Yearly in our course returning,
Messengers of shortest stay,
Thus we preach this truth concerning,
"Heaven and earth shall pass away."

On the tree of life eternal,
Man, let all thy hope be staid,
Which alone, for ever vernal,

Bears a leaf that shall not fade.


In the Porch of Binstead Church, in the Isle of Wight.

FAREWELL, Sweet Binstead! take a long farewell From one unused to sight of woods and seas; Amid the strife of cities doomed to dwell,

Yet roused to ecstacy by sights like these ; Who could for ever sit beneath thy trees,

Inhaling perfume from the flowery dell, Or, list'ning to the murmur of the breeze,

Gaze with delight on ocean's awful swell. Once more, adieu ! nor deem that I profane Thy sacred porch, for while the sabbath strain May fail to turn the sinner from his ways, These are impressions none can feel in vain ;

These are the wonders that perforce must raise The soul to GOD, in silent faith and praise!


No longer lies Nature asleep in the root;
She blooms in yon bough, lo! she sets in yon fruit;
Too soon from the bough if the blossom should fall,
No fruit will succeed,-the gay blossom is all :
Think, think, O my soul, what a lesson for thee!
The bough may bloom fair, but quite barren the


While planted I am in this garden below,
Some fruit, if but little, some fruit I must show ;
Lest He that has planted should say with a frown,
"The axe to the root; cut the cumberer down."
My season for bearing, not long it may last,
Then wise let me be ere that season is past;
Heaven, heaven is the clime, and once plant me
but there,

Oh! how shall I bloom, and what fruit shall I bear? In the Planter's own garden, beneath His own eye, My leaf shall not wither, my fruit shall not die; By that Fountain of Life I shall flourishing stand, Which ever shall flow at the Planter's right hand.


BLEST be the power, by Heaven's own flame inspired,

That first through shades monastic poured the light;

Where, with unsocial Indolence retired, Fell Superstition reigned in tenfold night; Where, long sequestered from the vulgar sight, Religion fettered lay, her form unknown, 'Mid direful gloom and many a secret rite; Till now released, she claims her native throne, And gilds th' awakening world with radiance all

her own.

O sacred source of sweet celestial peace!
From age to age in darksome cells confined!
Blest be the voice that bade thy bondage cease,
And sent thee forth t' illuminate the blind,
Support the weak, and raise the sinking mind:
By thee the soul her native strength explores,
Pursues the plan by favouring Heaven assigned,
Through Truth's fair path th' enlightened spirit


And the Great Cause of all with purer rites adores.

How oft, confined within this narrow grate, With souls aspiring to a world's applause, Have free-born spirits mourned their hapless fate! Some hero, ardent in his country's cause, Some patriot, formed to give a nation laws, Or in life's milder scenes with honour share; When each fond hope a father's hand withdraws, And dooms his child, from ev'ry prospect fair, To long unvarying years of lonely deep despair.

When darkness now with silence reigns around, As the faint sun withdraws his glimm'ring


(Save when, to render horror more profound, On the rough grate the pale moon quiv'ring


And thro' the length'ning aisle the owlet screams) Then, lulled by Fancy's visionary train, His long lost friends frequent his blissful dreams; He spends his days of childhood o’er again, Till sounds the midnight bell, and proves the

vision vain.

Yet let the hand of désolating Time

These sinking towers and mould'ring walks


For not with useless pride they rose sublime:
Fair Science stored her choicest treasures here,
When Rapine whirled aloft her threat'ning spear,
When Murder reigned, by gothic Ignorance

On ev'ry plain the barbarous bands appear,
Fierce Discord bids her hostile trumpet sound,
And War, in crimson'd robe, tremendous stalks

Though now in ruined majesty they lie,
The fading relics of departed days,
Yet shall their change no useless theme supply,
No trivial subject for the poet's lays;

For, as the thoughtful mind these scenes surveys,
Whose solemn shades reflection's powers invite,
Their fading pomp that awful hand displays,
Which can,
from transient ill and mental night,
Educe eternal good and intellectual light.


WAGES of sin is death: The day is come,
Wherein the equal hand of Death must sum
The several items of man's fading glory

Into the easy total of one story.

The brows that sweat for kingdoms and renown, To glorify their temples with a crown,


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