And where the fresh, dew-sprinkled thorn,
Showers of roses wild adorn:

There listening to the Mantuan swain,
Warbling his simplest rural strain,
Let no rude cry mine ear invade;
No clamour start the tranquil shade:
But softly shuddering, let the breeze,
In meshes snared of rustling trees,
Shake coolness from his wings, and sound,
Cull'd from the peaceful haunts around;
(Strains that for musing Poets made,
Steal from the world and seek the shade ;)
Or distant city's wafted cry,

Lull'd to a murmur ere it die.

These from without while zephyrs glean, Be sound as soothing caught within. Let, from a neighbouring thicket's gloom, Beneath the sweet-briar's tender bloom, A gushing rill be heard to chide; Let it run sparkling by my side; Let thrushes pour their melody; The bees" their murmuring labours ply:" Along the tumid verdure roam, Imbibe the honey-suckle's bloom, And cling to every bending flower,

Whose beauties veil the golden shower.
Such strains the softened soul compose;

Lull every mental gust that blows:
Such fairy joys fell woe beguile;
Teach the care-clouded front to smile;
The throes assuage of thorny paiu,
And, gently, faultering life sustain.

But thou, fair Health, thy aid impart ; Breathe warmth and vigour o'er my heart!

My langours charm-my pangs allay,
And feed and fan the vital ray :
Then quick to daisied meadows bring,
And yield me to the fostering spring!
Haste lovely Dryad! quickly turn! »
And bid me-bid me-cease to mourn.

IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

WHY will my wanton maid enquire,
How many kisses I desire?

Go, count the conscious stars, that see
How fond I nightly steal to thee;
Count every beaming glance, that flies
From those more radiant stars-thy eyes.
Count every pant, that heaves thy breast,
When to my panting bosom prest:
Go, count the loves, that ambush'd dwell,
In every dimple's rosy dell,

Or, fluttering, play on frolic wings
Through every tress that drops in rings:
Count every charm of every kind,

That decks thy face, thy form, thy mind;
Then, Lesbia, nor till then enquire,
How many kisses I desire.

tt.

ODE

TO DUTY.

OFFSPRING of holy Truth,
Maternal guide of youth,
Lo! to thy shrine no costly gifts I bring,
But thou, with aspect stern,

Wilt not, O Duty, spurn
Feeling's spontaneous simple offering.

Not mine the song of flame;
Not mine the hero's name;

Yet wilt thou not my humble efforts bless?
For I would call thee friend,

Thy voice with joy attend,

And walk with thee in silent usefulness.

Oft when I shuddering eye
The dark futurity,

That silent untried path! and meditate
On all the ills and cares,

The sorrows and the snares,

Which there the young adventurer await :

And think with sickening glance

Upon life's awful chance,

How great the danger, and the task how vast! From the dark torrent's brink

I like a coward shrink,

Fear to plunge in, and wildly wish it past.

VOL. VIII.

H h

Then thou, with frown severe,
Reprov'st my servile fear;

Why tremble thus, while Duty is thy guide?
While beams my steady light,

"Fear not the blackest night,

"For ill shall ne'er befall thee at my side."

And trust in thee I will;

O keep me near thee still,

And teach me every terror to dismiss!
For ne'er have I believed,

And thou my hopes deceived,
Thy yoke is easy, and thine end is bliss!

Should Love's seductive wiles,
Should Beauty's melting smiles,

From prudence tempt my youthful heart to err,
While phantoms of delight

Dance by my dazzled sight,

And eager Hope forbids me to defer:

O then, oppose thy shield,
Nor let me weakly yield,

But bow submissive, and await thy will,
Within my throbbing breast,

Be every sigh represt,
And every fond aspiring hope be still!

Yet never shall my heart

Be taught the Stoic's art:

Far-far the apathy of pride remove!
Oh! better 'twere to feel

The wound that ne'er can heal,

Than, cold and callous grown, forget to love.

Where'er thou lead'st the way,
The summons I'll obey;

Bid me come to thee o'er the yielding wave,
For thou wilt o'er the tide

My steps upholding guide,

And when I'm sinking, stretch thìne arm to save.

E'en shall thy stern command
Forbid my youthful hand

To hold sweet converse with the much-lov'd lyre,
Tho' not without a sigh,

I'd hang it up on high,

And bid with fond adieu the Muse retire.

Then, when in swift decay,

Fast ebbs my life away,

How sweet to hear thy soft approving voice!

How will thine angel-smile

The last sad hour beguile,

The dying pillow smooth-the sinking heart rejoice!

July, 1805.

EPIGRAM FROM THE LATIN.

TO SLEEP.

IMAGE of Death, my wishes give
With thee, kind Sleep, to lie:
Thus, without life, how sweet to live!
Thus, without death, to die.

ADO.