Yes, for immortal life I'll live,
Life that 'tis, Glory thine to give!→
I spread the wing, prepare to fly,
And fix on future years my eye;
But, gentle Ease, slow-drawing near,
With dulcet voice arrests my ear;
Paints, as she can, the private lot,
Obscure retreat, and low-roofed cot;
The peaceful life, that steals along
At distance from the jarring throng;
Nor least, to gild the modest scene,
Paints Independence' stately mien;
The love of Glory calls a jest ;
Glory, with toil and care opprest;
And bids me, wiser, seek to prove
The pleasures of a softer love;
Dear guide, (I murmur); I, with thee,
Will seek the best felicity!
Seizing the proud historic pen,
Fain would I picture states and men;
Or lash, with Virtue's holy rage,
The vices of an iron age;
Or nobly venturous, touch the wire
That, Horace, strung thy happy lyre!
"Tis well,' cries Glory, dare be great!
Strike home, be bold, and conquer fate!'
Alas, the words are scarcely said—
Ease comes in sleep, I droop my head!
Sluggard!'-that awful voice I hear,
That voice I love, that voice I fear :
Is't thus thy mispent minutes go?
Do men in sleep illustrious grow ?
'Tis Glory speaks!'-I feel her charms,
And spring, impatient, to her arms.
I hear the warrior-trumpet blow;
I burn to meet the haughty foe :
Forth to the fight, in thought, I run!
Already on my brow I wear
The laurel that my arm has won :
Charge! charge! pursue!
Rash fool, forbear,
Hear Ease, and shun the wiles of Care!
Thy brow let fragrant myrtle bind,
Lo MARY gives; lo, MARY kind!
Be her thy conquest, this thy spoil;
And, oh! despise the wretched toil
Of those, who, in the maddening field,
'Desire what arms and blood can yield!
'Be blind no more, but joined confess
With MARY, Glory, Happiness!
Follow thou me.'-Convinced, I bow,
Wise grown at length, and fixed now :
Again, again, 'tis Glory cries,
Unblest, from me the wretch that flies!
'What, coward! shall the fair be thine?
To win the fair, fond fool, is mine!
Shall thine the gentle MARY be?
Arise, deserve her, follow me!'
Ye powers, no longer let my mind
The right path vainly try to find;
But teach me where my vows to pay;
Teach me to choose, and where to stay!
Me Glory robs of Ease's calm;
Me Ease deprives of Glory's palm!
On a curious Chamber Stove in the Form of an Urn, con
trived in such a Manner as to make the Flame descend, instead of rising from the Fire, invented by a celebrated American Philosopher.
LIKE a Newton, sublimely he soared,
To a summit before unattained,
New regions of science explor'd,
And the palm of Philosophy gained.
With a spark that he caught from the skies,
He displayed an unparalleled wonder,
And we saw, with delight and surprise,
That his rod would defend us from thunder,
Oh! had he been wise to pursue
The track for his talents designed,
What a tribute of praise had been due
To the teacher and friend of mankind!
But, to covet political fame.
Was in him a degrading ambition;
A spark that from Lucifer came,
And kindled the blaze of sedition.
Let Candour then write on his urn,
Here lies the renowned inventor,
Whose Flame to the skies ought to turn,
But, inverted, descends to the centre.
TRANSLATED BY LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
PYRRHA, what ardent stripling now,
In one of thy embowr'd retreats,
Would press thee to indulge his vow,
Amidst a world of flow'rs and sweets?
For whom are bound thy tresses bright
With unconcern so exquisite?
Alas, how oft shall he bewail
His fickle stars and faithless gale,
And stare with unaccustom'd eyes
When the black winds and waters rise,
Though now the sunshine hour beguiles
His bark along thy golden smiles,
Trusting to see thee, for his play,
For ever keep smooth holiday.
Poor dazzled fools, who bask beside thee,
And trust because they never tried thee!
For me and for my dangers past,
The grateful picture hangs at last
Within the mighty Neptune's fane,
Who snatch'd me, dripping, from the main.
Addressed to Dr. Thornton, on his beautiful Group of Roses, published in Number XXX. of his " Temple of Flora."
THE CONSECRATION OF THE ROSES.
WHEN first, as ancient bards have sung,
The queen of love from ocean sprung,
To grace her head, to deck her bowers,
The earth produced the queen of flowers;
Coeval and congenial charms
With the same living blush that warms
Her mantling cheek, thy petal glows;
Emblem of Venus, beauteous Rose.
The enraptured gods her form surveyed,
Reclined beneath a myrtle's shade;
Whose boughs, of ever-during green,
Thy new-born blossoms smiled between.
Mark! whilst thy prototype they greet,
And spread their chaplets at her feet,
Mixed with the myrtle's polished leaves,
Flora a gayer garland weaves;
Culled from thy blooming buds most fair,
To decorate her silken hair;
Its glossy ringlets they entwine,
Yet humid from the sparkling brine;
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