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'Twas yet the dawn of youth's gay hour
Ere mild content had fled my bower:
Joy's rosy orb illum'd my sky,
And Fancy lit my roving eye;
I laugh'd at Danger's whisper'd threat,
With maddest hopes my vain heart beat;
'Twas then that Prudence cross'd my way,
And often, often would she say-

“ Check thy wild course, and follow me."
I murmur'd at her harsh command,
I would not take her offer'd hand.
“ What! (I exclaim'd,) already come,
All my best feelings to benumb?
Grant to my prayers a short delay,
Oh call again some other day;
Full soon will Time my minutes steal,
And on my forehead fix his seal :

Then, then, cold Nymph, I'll follow thee." She sigh'd and went;-I dropt a tear, But still pursued my mad career. While thus I joyous skipt along, I heard a soft and melting song;

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Onward I bounded,- for the strain
Thrill’d to my heart, and pierc'd my brain;
But Prudence stopt me;-tho' repell’d,
Still she return’d, my steps withheld,

And mournful whisper'd, “ Follow me.”
I turn'd me from her steadfast eye,
And from her presence long’d to fly.
Oh! it was Love's voluptuous lay
Tempted my truant feet to stray ;
That o'er my cheated senses stole,
And robb’d of energy my soul ;
That bade my tongue to Prúdence say,
“ Thou meddling fool, away! away!

I cannot-will not follow thee."
O'er flow'ry paths I gaily stept;
Prudence the while look'd on and wept:
I gaz’d on Love's enchanting smile,
And doated on the gentle wile:
'Tis not for

my weak lips to tell
The magic of each wond'rous spell,
Which did my bosom-peace betray,
And tempted still my tongue to say,

“ Prudence, I will not follow thee."
Thus was my feeble judgment led
By all that Love or look”d or said.
Thus was my raw, unpractic'd youth
Deceiv'd by Falsehood, deck'd in truth:
But when I prov'd that angel smile
The worthless covering of guile;
Oh! when


dark and vast despair
Had found his promises were air,
Then did remorse my bosom rend,
And clasping Prudence as my friend,

“ Lead on, (I cried) I'll follow thee." EXETER, APRIL 20, 1806.



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Why fall those tears on fair Asterie's breast?

Spring's earliest zephyrs shall restore ;
With faith, that cannot change, with fortune blest,

Thy lover to his native shore.
A distant port withholds him from thy sight,

Whilst adverse tempests rend the deep :
And his lone pleasure thro' the wakeful night

Is but to think of thee, and weep.
In vain fair Chloe spreads her festive snare,

And bids her prompted friend in vain,
With words of artful sympathy declare

The sighing progress of her pain.
In vain she tells his constant heart to prove,

How from the dame cold Peleus filed,
And found a fit reward of slighted love,

The verge of Hell for Beauty's bed:
How Argos' amorous queen, with cruel thought,

To heal a woman's wounded pride,
Her credulous lord to her dire humour wrought,

And the chaste fool had nearly died.

“The true forte of Horace, in his Odes, is not perhaps the “ sublime. It seems to me that he is never so much at home as " when he expatiates upon common topics, where he can indulge " his genius in a certain vein of elegant familiarity.


In vain her treacherous eloquence assails

With soft insinuating aim,
Deaf as a rock to her allusive tales,

His ears, his heart reject her claim.
But thou, whilst thus his manly faith disarms

Th'artillery of the wanton fair,
Beware thy gallant neighbour's graceful charms,

Ah, lest he charm too much beware!
What tho'he winds at will the fiery steed,

The martial plain's superior pride; What tho' his arms victoriously precede

Each youth who swims the Tuscan tide; Still from thy threshold, at approach of eve,

Let thy barred gate his steps deny ;
And tho his lyre melodiously may grieve

With airs of tenderest minstrelsy,
Trust not the open'd casement with thine car,

But let the baffled gallant find,
That whilst he artful swears thou art severe,

He may not hope to prove thee kind !

On the Publication of his Diurnal Register of the Winds

for the last Two Years.
No gale unlucky may thy fortunes find,
Benign Historian of the wayward wind !
But, when it rises with proverbial sway,
O may it cast all fickleness away!
On grateful wings, from blight and tempest free,
Blow only good from ev'ry point to THEE!



Come reach me old Anacreon's lyre,

For wintry snows are lowering near, And soon shall chill th' autumnal fire

That gleams on life's declining year. Then let me wake the rapturous shell,

With cords of sweet remembrance strung; While grateful Age delights to tell

Of joys that glow'd when life was young. And, lest 'the languid pulse forego

The throb that Fancy's flight inspires, Anacreon's flowing cup bestow,

And urge with wine the waning fires. But temper me the Teian bowl!

And chasten me the Teian shell! The visions that in memory

Are such as Nature's bosom swell.
Yet, Nature!--thine the votive string,

To no polluted ear addrest;
That of no blooming boys can sing,

But boys that hang on Beauty's breast.
Nor lawless thro' the realms of love,

Where native Venus lights the way, Shall yet excursive Fancy rove,

Inebriate with the wanton lay,


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