POOR tho' my lot, yet sweet my fare, Should thy dear hands the meal prepare; My hut would be a palace rare,
If bless'd with love and thee, Mary. No light but from thy beamy eyes, No warmth but what thy love supplies, No music but thy low-breath'd sighs,
And they shall thrill my soul, Mary. And when my daily task is done, And home I hie at setting sun, What prize so bright was ever won
As thy approving smile, Mary. No worldly care shall dare intrude To mar our peaceful solitude, No vice shall taint with footstep rude The dwelling grac'd by thee, Mary.
And oh! if e'er by sickness prest For come it may, unbidden guest, My pillow shall be thy soft breast,
My bed shall be thy arms, Mary. Nor long my soul with sorrow riven, For if a tear of thine be given,
Like the rich dew-drop sent from Heaven
"Twould cheer my drooping heart, Mary.
Thy tear that's shed for grief gone by, Thy smile that welcomes coming joy Shall blend a rainbow to my eye,
A pledge of peace to me, Mary. Thus smooth our lives will flow away, While love and virtue bear the sway; Pleasure shall crown each passing day,
Our nights be nights of bliss, Mary. And when I quit the world and thee, To sleep beneath the Alder tree, My latest breath a sigh shall be-
A sigh to Love, and Thee, Mary.
PLATO, in lines so strong, fair Virtue drew, That ev'ry eye the lovely Goddess knew; Fair Virtue now a just return has made, And call'd up Plato from th' Elysian shade; Again he breathes, again his form appears, Safe from the change of any future years; Such, as in life he shone, the same by thee To life restor'd the rev'rend Sage we see. Thy pencil, Nymph, with Hermes' rod may vie, The dead it raises, makes the living die.
FROM THE FRENCH OF M. LE DUC DE NIVERNOIS.
THROUGH driving sleet, and drifted snow,
A pious Sire resolv'd to go,
To pay his vows to Jove;
And well I ween much cause he had, Of hope and fear, of good and bad, From the decrees above.
His sons were press'd and sent to fight, A damn'd attorney, wrong or right, Had hamper'd him in law; By eager hope of gain allur'd, His ships at sea were not ensur'd, His wife was in the straw.
His weary steps the summit gain Where high in air uprose the fane, Rock'd by the wintry blast; Just as he reach'd the portals wide An ancient friend his entrance spied, And ask'd him why so fast?
Think'st thou the Gods have power to grant What foolish mortals wish and want, In every selfish vow?
As well to Jove the worm might cry, Whilst the swift share is passing by, And bid him stop the plough. The future, present, and the past, Were form'd at one Almighty cast, On one unchanging plan, Shall rapid orbs that whirling pass, Shall the momentum of the mass, Stop for the insect Man?
Think'st thou ?- -Indeed my I know that mighty Jove on high Superior and alone,
Exempt from human hope and fear, Sees spaceless time's eternal year Revolve around his throne.
But man, in every clime and age, The saint, the savage, and the sage, When urg'd by joy or care; Helpless, and to the future blind, Looks up to the omniscient mind, And soothes his soul with prayer.
BLEST, he who sees; who hears thee, trebly blest; Thy kiss is Paradise; and Heaven the rest.
THE frosty sky was bright and still, The winter moon shone clearly, Two lovers roam'd o'er heath and hill That long had lov'd-and dearly.
The blast blew chill, and 'neath their feet The snow in hills was driven; Yet past to them those moments sweet, As 'neath a summer-heaven.
Now at the lonely cottage door
They stood in murmurs telling,
And looks, that spoke than language more, What at the heart was swelling.
But they must part-the youth again Must tread the wild heath over, For Patty's sire would hear with pain The whisper of a lover.
For she who had it's day-star been
Had left his bosom lonely;
Had mournful made Life's evening scene; He liv'd in Patty only.
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