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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,
O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call!

By all the honey'd store

On Hybla's thymy shore ;
By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear;

By her* whose love-loru woe,

In evening musings slow,
Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

By old Cephisus deep,

Who spread his wavy sweep,
In warbled wanderings, round thy green retreat;

On whose enamell’d side,

When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt allured thy future feet.

O sister meek of Truth,

To my admiring youth,
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse !

The flowers that sweetest breathe,

Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.

While Rome could none esteem
But virtue's patriot theme,

* 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 ;
And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.

No more, in hall or bower,

The passions own thy power;
Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:

For thou hast left her shrine ;

Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

Though taste, though genius bless

To some divine excess,
Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;

What each, what all supply,

May court, may charm our eye ;
Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!

Of these let others ask,

To aid some mighty task ;
I only seek to find thy temperate vale ;

Where oft my reed might sound

To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.

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.”

1

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

cypress

did

wave, 66 Behold there the Mansion of Rest."

She spoke--and half vanish'd in air,

For she saw mild Religion appear
With a smile, that would banish despair,

And dry up the penitent tear.
Doubts and fears from my bosom were driven,

And, pressing the cross to her breast,
And pointing serenely to Heaven,

She show'd the true Mansion of Rest.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

BY DR. SMOLLETT.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valor long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty !
The wretched owner sees, afar,
Vis all become the

prey

W

of war ;

Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks ;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke :
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancor fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night :
No strains, but those of sorrow,

flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood;
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murdering steel !
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath ;

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