For Fancy decks the lovely scene
With purer floods, and meads more green ;
Strews flow'rets of a thousand dies;
Bids the wild copse majestic rise;
Deepens the shadows of the dell ;
Gives to the hills a bolder swell;
Laps Nature in her soft controul,
And breathes her magic o'er the soul.
Then evening comes-away, away,
Ye visions of enchantment gay!
Fancy, away! on this blest spot,
In May's sweet eve, we need thee not.
Enough for us fair Nature's power,
Spring's balmy grace, and evening's hour.
Fairer than all that Fancy drew
The living landscape springs to view,
Beneath fair Cynthia's trembling ray,
Silvering the elm's fantastic spray.
'Tis from that hill, whose beech crown'd brow O'erlooks the smiling vale below;
An amphitheatre around,
High woodlands the fair prospect bound;
Deep in the vale the gathering shade
Adds gloom to each embow'ring glade;
Save where on some lone cottage wall,
The moon's pale beams wild quiv'ring fall,
Cast o'er the Cot their modest light,
Or gleam upon the casement bright;
Save where the shallow, peaceful stream,
A waveless mirror seems to beam;
Now seen, now lost, the woods among,
It winds its devious course along;
The clustering elms, in hoary pride,
The stately oaks, hang o'er the tide,
And yon rude bridge in antique state,
Trembles beneath the peasant's weight.
Save where, amid the general gloom,
One cherish'd spot those rays illume;
It is a modest mansion fair,
And Taste has spread his beauties there;
My Mary, know'st thou not the dome?
The seat of peace,my lovely home!
Lovely, and most belov'd: though now
Alone I seek the hills fair brow;
Alone I tread the verdant plain,
And sigh for thee, and sigh in vain.
Thee, higher, tenderer duties claim,
A sister's and a daughter's name;
The noble matron's fruitless grief,
Finds only in thy cares relief;
Thy widowed father's anguished soul,
Melts only at thy soft controul.
Ah! Mary thou each woe hast known
And wept all sorrows but thine own;
For close within that gentle breast,
Each selfish sigh is locked to rest;
For other's griefs thy soft tear flows,
For other's bliss thy bosom glows.
Ne'er may that tender bosom feel
The wound of misery's bitter steel!
"Tis thine, with soul-enchanting grace,
To banish pain's malignant trace;
Balm on the mourner's pillow shed,
And sooth declining age's head.
Hard is the task: but blest the deed!
And bright fair Virtue's glorious meed!
Beloved Maid! that Virtue's power
Sustains thee in the trying hour;
Though youth, and health, and beauty, all In the sad task should fade and fall; Yet shall thy charms of mind, of soul, Spurn sorrow's sway and time's controul; Thy life with purest rays illume, And soar to bliss beyond the Tomb! Bertram House.
WITHIN this dismal tomb confin'd
Lies him, who laughed at all mankind;
To rich and poor, to youth and age
Taught truth
upon the comic stage;
And made the theatre a school,
Where vice was lash'd by ridicule.
When spreading antlers shade the brows
Of rustic or of courtly spouse,
He taught them gracefully to bear
The honors, they were doom'd to wear.
Daring at last to try his wit
Upon the quack and hypocrite
Death took offence, and aim'd a dart
That smote our actor to the heart:
He dies, while only sick in jest,
Denied in holy ground to rest;
Left by the priest and doctor in the lurch,
Without the aid of physic or the Church.
ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON,
AMID the incense of a world's applause,
That hails the champion of his country's cause,
By virtue's tears embalm'd, to merit just,
Thy ashes, Washington! return to dust!
But not to death's oblivious shade return
Thy soul's warm energies-they guard thy urn-
When Freedom, shrieking thro' the western sky,
Call'd all her sons to conquer, or to die,
Turn'd her fair face, and shudder'd as she view'd
The kindred hosts with civil blood imbru'd,
Full in the vau thy withering arm reveal'd
Its awful sweep and conquest trod the field.
When torn humanity in sorrow stood
As war's wild vengeance pour'd the crimson flood,
Thine was the boast 'mid ranks with terror lin'd
To blend the feeling and the mighty mind!
In scenes of havoc and devouring flame
No brutal carnage stain'd thy glorious name;
No voice of misery in vain implor'd
The meed of mercy from thy conquering sword:
These were the triumphs whose supporting power
Shed its soft influence on thy dying hour!
To thee! no terrors deepen'd into gloom
The long unfathom'd twilight of the tomb.
-That heart, with virtue's purest feelings warm,
--That arm, the first in battle and alarm,
Still shield thy country-for thy birth was fame,
And latest ages shall adore thy name.
Edinburgh.
SENT TO A YOUNG LADY, UPON A PAPER ROUND A CARNATION.
BY THE LATE REV. DR. RUSSEL.
THIS flower, by Flora's hand array'd,
See, what a lovely dress it wears!
But soon alas! its colours fade,
And ev'ry beauty disappears.
Pass but a few short hours, and all
Those charms our ravish'd eyes behold,
Shall into dusty atoms fall,
And blend and mix with common mould,
Then know this useful truth, my Fair,
This moral learn from what you see;
Such, as this flow'r is now, you are,
Such, as 'tis ten days hence, you'll be.
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