But, hail the calm reality,
The seraph Immortality!

Hail the heavenly bowers of peace,
Where all the storms of passion cease.
Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er,
The wearied spirit weeps no more;
But wears the eternal smile of joy,
Tasting bliss without alloy.
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,
Where no passing tempest lowers;
But the azure heavens display
The everlasting smile of day;
Where the choral seraph choir,
Strike to praise the harmonious lyre;
And the spirit sinks to ease,

Lull'd by distant symphonies.

Oh! to think of meeting there

The friends, whose graves receiv'd our tear,

The daughter lov'd, the wife ador'd,

To our widow'd arms restor❜d;

And all the joys which death did sever,

Given to us again for ever!

Who would cling to wretched life,
And hug the poison'd thorn of strife;
Who would not long from earth to fly,
A sluggish senseless lump to lie :
When the glorious prospect lies,
Full before his raptur'd eyes.

MUSIC,

Written between the ages of fourteen aud fifteen, with a few subsequent verbal alterations.

MUSIC, all powerful o'er the human mind,
Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm,
Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclin'd,
And e'en fierce anger's furious rage disarm.

At her command the various passions lie,
She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace,
Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy,

And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease.

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise,
Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire,

Urge on the warrior grey with length of days.

Far better she when with her soothing lyre,

She charms the faulchion from the savage grasp, And melting into pity vengeful ire,

Looses the bloody breast-plate's iron clasp.

With her in pensive mood I long to roam,
At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,
And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,
In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline.

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,

With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,

And pleas'd attention claims the passive mind.

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,
Then burst majestic in the varied swell;
Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,

That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul,

With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live

For ever 'neath your undefil'd controul.

Oh surely melody from heaven was sent,

To cheer the soul when tir'd with human strife, To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,

And soften down the rugged road of life.

ODE

TO THE HARVEST MOON.

-Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent:

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.

VIRGIL.

MOON of Harvest, herald mild,
Of plenty, rustic labour's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,
Where innocence and peace reside;

'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

Moon of Harvest, I do love,
O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene,
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high,

In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way,

Pleasing 'tis, oh, modest moon!
Now the night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun tann'd wheat,
Ripen'd by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy,
When boundless plenty greets his eye,
And thinking soon,

Oh, modest moon!

How many a female eye will roam,

Along the road,

To see the load,

The last dear load of harvest home.

Storms and tempests, floods and rains,

Stern despoilers of the plains,
Hence away, the season flee,
Foes to light-heart jollity;
May no winds careering high,

Drive the clouds along the sky;

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,

When in the heavens thou shew'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes;

He dreams of crowded barns, and round

The yard he hears the flail resound;