'Twas but faint the relief to dismay,
The cells of the wretched among;
Though sympathy sung in the lay,
Though melody fell from his tongue.

Let the favour'd of fortune attend
To the ails of the wretched and poor:
Though Corydon's lays could befriend,
'Tis riches alone that can cure.

But they to compassion are dumb;
To pity, their voices unknown;
Near sorrow they never can come,

Till misfortune has mark'd them her own.

Now the shades of the evening depend

Each warbler is lull'd on the spray;

The cypress doth ruefully bend

;

Where reposes the shepherd's cold clay,

Adieu, then, the songs of the swain !

Let peace still attend on his shade;
And his pipe, that is dumb to his strain,
In the grave be with Corydon laid.

THE DELIGHTS OF VIRTUE.

RETURNING morn, in orient blush array'd, With gentle radiance hail'd the sky serene; No rustling breezes wav'd the verdant shade; No swelling surge disturb'd the azure main. These moments, meditation! sure are thine; These are the halcyon joys you wish to find,

When nature's peaceful elements combine
To suit the calm composure of the mind.

The Muse, exalted by thy sacred power,

To the green mountain's airy summit flew, Charm'd with the thoughtful stillness of an hour, That usher'd beaming fancy to her view.

Fresh from old Neptune's fluid mansion sprung
The sun, reviver of each drooping flower;
At his approach, the lark, with matin song,
In notes of gratitude confess'd his power.

So shines fair virtue, shedding light divine
On those who wish to profit by her ways;
Who ne'er at parting with their vice repine,
To taste the comforts of her blissful rays.

She with fresh hopes each sorrow can beguile;
Can dissipate adversity's deep gloom;

Make meagre poverty contented smile;

And the sad wretch forget his hapless doom.

Sweeter than shady groves in Summer's pride,
Than flowery dales or grassy meads, is she;
Delightful as the honey'd streams that glide
From the rich labours of the busy bee.

Her paths and alleys are for ever green :There innocence, in snowy robes array'd, With smiles of pure content, is hail'd the queen And happy mistress of the sacred shade.

O let no transient gleam of earthly joy
From virtue lure your labouring steps aside;
Nor instant grandeur future hopes annoy
With thoughts that spring from insolence and
pride.

Soon will the winged moments speed away, When you'll no more the plumes of honour wear: Grandeur must shudder at the sad decay,

And pride look humble when he ponders there.

Depriv'd of virtue, where is beauty's power?

Her dimpled smiles, her roses, charm no more; So much can guilt the loveliest form deflower, We loathe that beauty which we lov'd before.

How fair are virtue's buds, where'er they blow, Or in the desert wild, or garden gay!

Her flowers how sacred, wheresoe'er they show, Unknown to killing canker and decay!

A TAVERN ELEGY.

FLED are the moments of delusive mirth;
The fancied pleasure! paradise divine!
Hush'd are the clamours that derive their birth
From generous floods of soul-reviving wine.

Still night and silence now succeed their noise; The erring tides of passion rage no more; But all is peaceful as the ocean's voice

When breezeless waters kiss the silent shore.

Here stood the juice, whose care-controlling powers
Could every human misery subdue,

And wake to sportive joy the lazy hours,
That to the languid senses hateful grew.

Attracted by the magic of the bowl,

Around the swelling brim in full array

The glasses circled, as the planets roll,

And hail with borrow'd light the god of day.

Here music, the delight of moments gay,

Bade the unguarded tongues their motions cease, And with a mirthful, a melodious lay,

Aw'd the fell voice of discord into peace.

These are the joys that virtue must approve,
While reason shines with majesty divine,
Ere our ideas in disorder move,

And sad excess against the soul combine.

What evils have not frenzied mortals done
By wine, that ignis fatuus of the mind!
How many by its force to vice are won,
Since first ordain'd to tantalize mankind!

By Bacchus' power, ye sons of riot! say,
How many watchful sentinels have bled?
How many travellers have lost their way,
By lamps unguided through the evening shade!

O spare those friendly twinklers of the night!
Let no rude cane their hallow'd orbs assail !
For cowardice alone condemns the light

That shews her countenance aghast and pale.

Now the short taper warns me to depart

Ere darkness shall assume his dreary sway; Ere solitude fall heavy on my heart,

That lingers for the far approach of day.

Who would not welcome the less dreaded doom, To be for ever number'd with the dead,

Rather than bear the miserable gloom,

When all his comforts, all his friends, are fled?

From all the follies of the night secure,
The balmy blessings of repose to taste,
Nor hear the tongue of outrage at my door.

GOOD EATING.

HEAR, O ye host of Epicurus! hear!
Each portly form, whose overhanging paunch
Can well denote the all-transcendent joy
That springs unbounded from fruition full
Of rich repast; to you I consecrate
The song adventurous; happy if the Muse
Can cook the numbers to your palates keen,
Or send but half the relish with her song,
That smoking sirloins to your souls convey.
Hence now, ye starvelings wan! whose empty
sides

Oft echo to the hollow-murmuring tones
Of hunger fell.-Avaunt, ye base-born hinds!
Whose fates unkind ne'er destined you to gorge
The banquet rare, or wage a pleasing war
With the delicious morsels of the earth.
To you I sing not:-for, alas! what pain,
What tantalizing tortures would ensue,
To aid the force of famine's sharpest tooth,
Were I to breathe my accents in your ear!

Hail, Roast Beef! monarch of the festive throng,
To hunger's bane the strongest antidote ;
Come, and with all thy rage-appeasing sweets
Our appetites allay! For, or attended
By root Hibernian, or plum-pudding rare,
Still thou art welcome to the social board.
Say, can the spicy gales from Orient blown,