ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning:

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations;

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away A poet's drop of ink?.

Upborne into the viewless air

It floats a vapour now,
Impelled through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow.

Ordained perhaps ere summer flies,
Combined with millions more,
To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever past my pen,
So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left may shine
With equal grace below.

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.

A FABLE.

I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rosseau,* If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child, that knows no better Than to interpret by the letter A story of a cock and bull,

Must have a most uncommon scull.

It chanced then on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design

To forestall sweet St. Valentine,

It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?

9

In many an orchard, copse, and grove,
Assembled on affairs of love,

And with much twitter and much chatter,
Began to agitate the matter.

At length a Bulfinch, who could boast
More years and wisdom than the most,
Entreated, opening wide his beak,
A moment's liberty to speak;
And, silence publicly enjoined,
Delivered briefly thus his mind:

My friends! be cautious how ye treat
The subject upon which we meet:

I fear we shall have winter yet.

A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing, and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied:

Methinks the gentleman, quoth she,
Opposite in the apple-tree,

By his good will would keep us single
Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle,
Or (which is likelier to befall)
Till death exterminate us all.
I'll marry without more ado,
My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation

Of an immediate conjugation.
Their sentiments, so well expressed,
Influenced mightily the rest;
All paired, and each pair built a nest.

But though the birds were thus in haste,
The leaves came on not quite so fast,
And Destiny, that sometimes bears
An aspect stern on man's affairs,
Not altogether smiled on theirs.
The wind, of late breathed gently forth,
Now shifted east, and east by north;
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,
Could shelter them from rain or snow;
Stepping into their nests, they paddled,
Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled;
Soon every father bird and mother

Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other,
Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met,
And learned in future to be wiser,
Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL.

Misses! the tale that I relate

This lesson seems to carryChoose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.

And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs* adorned with every grace That spaniel found for me.)

Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,

Pursued the swallows o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse di played
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.

With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains

To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I returned;
Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discerned,
And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropped
Impatient swim to meet

My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.

Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed

But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,

To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.

*Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

SITIVE PLANT.

An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded—
And worthy thus to be recorded:-

Ah, hapless wretch, condemned to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordained to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But tossed and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast-rooted against every rub.

The plant he meant, grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants called sensitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's muse is

To make them grow just where she chooses.
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you:
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unlettered spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!
Thus life is spent (oh fie upon 't!)

In being touched, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and checked this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
my Lady S
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants, that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all-not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love:
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed he felt it.

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

OH, happy shades-to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that can not rest, agree!

This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please.

But fixed unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While Peace possessed these silent bowers,
Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade,

But not like me to nourish wo!

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

WHAT Nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,
⚫ And winter is decked with a smile.
See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed,,
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

"Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats

From the cruel assaults of the clime. While Earth wears a mantle of snow,

These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow

On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely survived The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose Seemed graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED
STATE.

THE lady thus addressed her spouse:
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough: and was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,
Those hangings with their worn out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen.

Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.

You are so deaf, the lady cried,
(And raised her voice, and frowned beside,)
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear?

Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wise:
For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride whip and spur,
'Twas but a mile-your favourite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing-
Child! I am rather hard of hearing-
Yes, truly; one must scream and bawl:
I tell you, you can't hear at all!
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be feared,
As to be wantonly incurred,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation?

The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear:
And something, every day they live,
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish or a sense impaired,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult, and intestine war.

The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. FORCED from home and all its pleasures,

Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,

O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though slave they have enrolled me
Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever,

What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Can not forfeit Nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all creating Nature

Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water,

Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords.

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,

Is there one who reigns on high? Has he bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from his throne the sky?

Ask him, if your knotted scourges,

Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges
Agents of his will to use?

Hark! he answers-wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks;
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which he speaks.
He, foreseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo,
Fixed their tyrant's habitations
Where his whirlwinds answer-no.

By our blood in Afric wasted,

Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main; By our suffering since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart; All, sustained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart:

Deem our nation brutes no longer,

Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings

Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours!

PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.

'Video meliora proboque,

Deteriora sequor.'

I OWN I am shocked at the purchase of slaves, And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves;

What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and

groans,

Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see?

What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea?

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes, Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains; If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will, And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.

If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, Much more in behalf of your wish might be said; But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks? Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind A story so pat, you may think it is coined,

On purpose to answer you, out of my mint;
But I can assure you I saw it in print.

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,
And asked him to go and assist in the job.

He was shocked, sir, like you, and answered-'Oh

no!

What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you don't

go;

Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread,
Then think of his children, for they must be fed.'

'You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, you shall have a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.'

They spoke, and Tom pondered-' I see they will go:

Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!

Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, But staying behind would do him no good.

'If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang, till they dropped from the

Which served my weak thought for a guideThat Britannia, renowned o'er the waves

For the hatred she ever has shown, To the black-sceptered rulers of slaves, Resolves to have none of her own.

THE MORNING DREAM.
'Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,
I dreamed what I can not but sing,
So pleasant it seemed as I lay.
I dreamed, that, on ocean afloat,

Far hence to the westward I sailed,
While the billows high-lifted the boat,
And the fresh-blowing breeze never failed.

In the steerage a woman I saw,

Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impressed me with awe, Ne'er taught me by woman before. She sat, and a shield at her side

Shed light, like a sun on the waves And, smiling divinely, she cried'I go to make freemen of slaves.'

Then raising her voice to a strain

The sweetest that ear ever heard, She sung of the slave's broken chain, Wherever her glory appeared.

THE

NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.

A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with a 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 by 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 adınire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the selfsame, power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.