Where mem'ry no pangs of compunction o'ercloud,
Nor conscience repeats ev'ry baseness aloud;
Where few are the dainties that life must resign,
And the soul can repose in the mercies Divine?
As the rivers incessantly run to the sea,
As the springs from their beds still strive to get free :-
So hastens each mortal to one common grave,-
The only possession the richest can save;
Where the honour'd and mean together repose,
And friends mingle dust with their once-fellest foes.
Since then, my PHILANDER, we all know our fate,
And life is but short, e'en when longest its date,
Learn early to live for yourself and your friends,
And taste every blessing that Providence lends.
If you hunt after fame, or honours, or wealth,
And forfeit the joys of quiet and health;
Or whether, indifferent, you sail down life's tide,
And only for natural cravings provide:
Alike o'er our heads Time's last curtain shall close,
And remembrance lose hold of its pleasures or woes.
Come then, and indulge your genius and taste;
Nor longer your years in vain industry waste:
Bid your villa arise on yon gay sunny site,
Where each object in nature conspires to delight;
Where the sweet bird of eve shall woo you to rest,
And at morn, blooming pleasure enrapture your breast;
Where the charms of bright wisdom shall win all your
And philosophy pure her best treasures impart ;
Where I, too, shall hail you my neighbour aud friend,
And learn from your converse my failings to mend ;
With studies congenial, and objects the same,
Fast rivet affection's inviolate flame:
Till, ardent my hope, and my heart all resign'd,
I leave this vain world, a better to find;
When your tear, and your verse, shall hallow my grave,
And your friendship my memory religiously save;
Forget all my foibles, and say, with a sigh-
"O earth! on the bosom that lov'd me, light lie."
WRITTEN IN THE TEMPLE OF PEACE, AT TUSMORE THE SEAT OF WM. FERMOR, ESQ. AUG. 1, 1804, THE AUTHOR'S BIRTH-DAY.
In this sequester'd, smiling seat,
Where Worth and Genius oft retreat,
Where FERMOR sees with raptur'd eyes
His own creations gaily rise,
I try to woo the Muse once more,
And call her fairy visions o'er ;
But Hope and Fancy both are fled,-
No day-dreams flutter round my head,
And, lost to Joy's ecstatic glow,
My Lyre attunes its notes to woe.
Yet midst this scene, where Art and Taste
Are only NATURE better drest,
A momentary pause I find
From all that agitates the mind,
And, bursting Sorrow's with'ring spell,
I feel calm PEACE pervade her cell.
O may these bowers be ever blest,
That soothe my throbbing heart to rest! may these skies be ever clear,
And fav'ring angels hover near,
That lull the sense of mental pain,
And wake COMPOSURE's tranquil strain!
As here I sit at early dawn,
While dew-drops gem the velvet lawn, And warblers chant their matin lay, And ev'ry flower looks fresh and gay, TRUTH whispers in my patient ear, How vain is Hope, how weak is Fear!" I catch the sound, and in my breast I bid this maxim be imprest,"That hopes and fears, with bliss at strife, "Are doom'd to chequer mortal life; "And they who sink, and they who soar, "Soon find their joys and suff'rings o'er."
Since first I saw the light of heav'n,
This day nine lustra have been giv'n;
Of life the larger space is run-
I view a quick declining sun:
The moments pass in rapid flight,
That bring me to the goal of Night;
While RETROSPECTION's painful eye
Can scarcely trace one point of joy;
And still my natal Star, malign,
Impending clouds forbid to shine.
Year after year has swept away
Some much-lov'd good, some promis'd stay,
And anguish'd Reason wakes to find
Even Hope, reluctant, left behind.
No longer now a Parent's pray'r Ascends to make me Heaven's blest care; No longer Duty pants to save
A Father-Mother from the
In dust they both oblivious sleep,
Nor taste my love, nor see me weep.
An only Brother's early fate
In distant climes, why, sad, relate?
When wounded Nature bids me mourn
Three Children from my bosom torn!
And chief my WILLIAM*! whose fair bloom
Gave hopes of fruitage rich to come;
Whose gentle mind and feeling heart
Were form'd cach pleasure to impart ;.
Whose op'ning powers warm Genius fir'd,
Whose social converse never tir'd.-
But soon the lovely scene was o'er,
And bliss can touch this breast no more--
A thousand deaths I felt in thine:
Yet still I live, ye Pow'rs divine!
He died at the age of fifteen, in November, 1799.
Oh, if thy Spirit, hov'ring near,
A pensive Parent's vows can hear;
Oh, if thy cares extend to earth,
And watch the Partners of thy birth;
A portion of thy filial love
Pour down, propitious, from above:
Inspire thy temper meek-thy sense,
Thy duteous deeds without pretence;
Nor let me feel that sharpest ill-
A Child's ingratitude-to fill
The measure of my woes complete,
And drive frail Reason from her seat-
Wrap ev'ry thought in black despair,
And burst this heart, too weak to bear
Affection, duty, unreturn'd;
The sullen air, the counsel spurn'd,
The perverse mind, to rob of rest
The breast that bleeds to see it blest.
But cease-I own the hand of God,
And kiss the sharp but saving rod;
To earth I feel the loosen'd ties,
And fix my anchor on the skies;
Where ills endur'd, and trials past,
(Like Seamen rescued from the blast)
Will give fresh pleasure to the shore,
And soothe the Soul for evermore!
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