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Who first on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!
Thou, who, with hermit heart,
Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and training pall;
But comest, a decent maid,
In Attic robe array'd,
By all the honey'd store
On Hybla's thymy shore ;
By her* whose love-loru woe,
In evening musings slow,
By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep,
On whose enamell’d side,
When holy Freedom died,
O sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth,
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
While Rome could none esteem
* The nightingale, for which Sophocles seems to bave entertained a peculiar fondness:
You loved her hills, and led her laureat band:
But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish'd throne ;
No more, in hall or bower,
The passions own thy power;
For thou hast left her shrine ;
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Though taste, though genius bless
To some divine excess,
What each, what all supply,
May court, may charm our eye ;
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty task ;
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
THE MANSION OF REST.
BY THE RT. HON. CHARLES JAMES FOX.
I TALK'D to my flattering heart,
And chid its wild wandering ways;
I charged it from folly to part,
And to husband the rest of its days : I bade it no longer admire
The meteors which fancy had dress’d; I whisper'd 'twas time to retire,
And seek for a Mansion of Rest.
A charmer was listening the while,
Who caught up the tone of my lay; “ O come then," she cried, with a smile,
66 And I'll show you the place and the way :" I follow'd the witch to her home,
And vow'd to be always her guest : 6? Never more," I exclaim'd, “ will I roam
6 In search of the Mansion of Rest.”
But the sweetest of moments will fly,
Not long was my fancy beguiled ; For too soon I confess’d, with a sigh,
That the syren deceived while she smiled. Deep, deep, did she stab the repose
Of my trusting and unwary breast, And the door of each avenue close,
That led to the Mansion of Rest.
Then Friendship enticed me to stray
Through the long magic wilds of Romance; But I found that she meant to betray,
And shrunk from the sorcerer's glance. For experience has taught me to know,
That the soul that reclined on her breast, Might toss on the billows of
woe, And ne'er find the Mansion of Rest.
Pleasure's path I determined to try,
But Prudence I met in the way,
Conviction flash'd light from her eye,
And appear’d to illumine' my day: She cried-as she shew'd me a
grave, With nettles and wild flowers dress'd, O'er which the dark
wave, 66 Behold there the Mansion of Rest."
She spoke--and half vanish'd in air,
For she saw mild Religion appear
And dry up the penitent tear.
And, pressing the cross to her breast,
She show'd the true Mansion of Rest.
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
BY DR. SMOLLETT.
MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
of war ;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,