As thro' the garden's desart paths I rove,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, when purple ev'ning ting'd the West,
We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest;
Welcom'd the wild bee home on wearied wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the Spring!
How oft inscrib'd, with Friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time;
Soar'd in the swing, half pleas'd and half afraid,
Thro' sister elms that wav'd their Summer-shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's lov'd group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green! Indulgent MEMORY wakes, and, lo! they live, Cloth'd with far softer hues than light can give.) Thou first, best friend that Heav'n assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the muse invoke!-to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd, Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.

PLEASURES OF MEMORY,

11

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quick'ning my truant feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here! And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams!

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blaz'd
The Gipsy's faggot-there we stood and gaz'd;
Gaz'd on her sun-burnt face with silent awe,
Her tatter'd mantle, and her hocd of straw;
Her moving lips, her caldron brmming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,
Imps, in the barn, with mousing owlet bred,
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;

Whose dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest shade,
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd;
And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call,
Whose elfin prowess scal'd the orchard wall.

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,

And traced the line of life with searching view,

How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, To learn the colour of my future years!

Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast! This truth once known-To bless, is to be blest!

12

PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

We led the bending beggar on his

way; (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,), Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropp'd our little store, And wept to think that little was no more;

He breath'd his prayer, “Long may such goodness live!" 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.

Angels, when Mercy's mandate wing'd their flight,
Had stopt to catch new rapture from the sight.

But hark! thro' those old fires, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel-door,
Worn smooth by busy feet, now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring,
Where the heart danc'd, and life was in its spring;
Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,

That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed,
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft, as he turn'd the green sward with his spade,
He lectur'd every youth that round him play'd,
And, calmly pointing where his fathers lay,
Rous'd him to rival each, the hero of his day.

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here, alone, I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of Truth, Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age belov'd; in poverty rever'd;In Friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give.

But when the sons of peace and pleasure sleep,
When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep;
What spells entrance my visionary mind,
With sighs so sweet, with raptures so refin'd?

Ethereal Power! whose smile, at noon of night, Recalls the far-fled spirit of delight,

Instils that musing melancholy mood,

Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Blest MEMORY, hail! Oh, grant the grateful muse
Her pencil, dipt in Nature's living hues,

To

pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul,

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! (a)

Each stamps its image as the other flies!

Each, as the various avenues of sense

Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,

Control the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious PROSPERO'S mysterious spell
Conven'd the subject-spirits to his cell;
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,

As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense; that sacred source,
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And thro' the frame invisibly convey

The subtle, quick vibrations, as they play.

Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ;-
From Reason's faintest ray, to NEWTON, soar.
What different spheres to human bliss assign'd!
What slow gradations in the scale of mind!
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought;
Oh, mark the sleepless energies of thought!

Th' adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home, with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy;

And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,

The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,
The village-common spotted white with sheep,
The church-yard yews, round which his fathers sleep; (b)
All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.

So, when the mild TUPIA dar'd explore
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before,