Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou, O nymph, retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

O say, what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?

When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder ray?

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And ev'ry storm is laid?

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice,
Low whisp'ring thro' the shade.

XI.

THE SPRING JOURNEY.

OH! green was the corn as I rode on my way, And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May, And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold, And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.

The thrush from the holly, the lark from the cloud, Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud; From the soft vernal sky, to the soft grassy ground, There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.

The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,

And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,

I felt a new pleasure as onward I sped,

Το gaze where the rainbow gleam'd broad over head.

Oh! such be life's journey, and such be our skill To lose in its blessing the sense of its ill; Through sunshine and shower, may our progress be even,

And our tears add a charm to the prospects of Heaven!

XII.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

Ан me! these youthful bearers, robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale. Some blooming friend
Is gone,-dead in her prime of years. 'T was she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not
give,
With angel tongue persuaded those who could;

With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye,

That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd
For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,-
Rejoiced to die,—for happy visions bless'd

Her voyage's last days, and, hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage

That heaven was nigh. O what a burst
Of rapture from her lips! What tears of joy
Her heavenward eyes suffused!

closed;

Those eyes are

But all her loveliness is not yet flown.

She smiled in death, and still her cold, pale face
Retains that smile: as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.

F

XIII.

THE WITHERED OAK.

'T was autumn: the sun, now descending the sky, In a robe of bright crimson and gold was ar

ray'd,

While the pale, sickly moon scarcely open'd her eye, Just peep'd thro' the forest, and silver'd the glade.

The voice of the evening was heard in the trees; Each chirper so merry was seeking his nest ; The anthem of insects was mix'd with the breeze, And Nature look'd pleased-all her children were blest.

E'en the trees appear'd drest in their holiday clothes,

And they waved their green arms and they seem'd to rejoice;

While methought as I listen'd, at times there arose,

From each oak's ivied branches, a Deity's

voice.