Thou, Friendship, who alone hast power
To heal each deeply-rankling wound,
And cheer affliction's darkest hour-

Thou whom I early sought and found:
Employment, too, whose healing balm
Can still the passions' madding rage,
The tempest of the soul can calm,
And all life's ills assuage.

'Tis thou, who unappall'd by toil,
Canst to perfection bring each nobler aim,
And atoms upon atoms pile,

To form a system's mighty frame:

Led by thy hand in life's declining day,

Hours, minutes, months, and years, will softly steal

away.

J. B.

EPITAPH

ON THEOBALD AYLWARD, MUS. D.

GRESHAM PROFESSOR OF MUSIC.

WHO DIED FEB. 27, 1801, AGED 70 YEARS.
BY W. HAYLEY, ESQ.

AYLWARD, adieu! my pleasing, gentle friend,
Regret and honour on thy grave attend:
Thy rapid hand, harmonious skill possest,
And moral harmony enriched thy breast:
For heaven most freely to thy life assigned
Benevolence, the music of the mind;
Mild, as thy nature, all thy mortal scene;
Thy death was easy, as thy life serene.

AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER

TO HER

INFANT AT THE BREAST.

UNHAPPY child of Indiscretion!

Poor slumberer ön a breast forlorn,
Pledge and reproof of past transgression,
Dear, though unwelcome to be born!
For thee, a suppliant wish addressing

To heaven, thy mother fain would dare;
But conscious blushes stain the blessing,
And sighs suppress my broken prayer.
But, spite of these, my mind unshaken,
In parent duty turns to thee,
Though long repented, ne'er forsaken,
Thy days shall loved and guarded be.

And, lest the injurious world upbraid thee,
For mine, or for thy father's ill,

A nameless mother oft shall aid thee,
A hand unseen protect thee still.

And though, to rank and place a stranger,
Thy life an humble course must run,
Soon shalt thou learn to fly the danger,
Which I too late have learnt to shun.

Meantime, in these sequestered vallies,
Here may'st thou rest in safe content,
For Innocence may smile at Malice,
And thou, O thou, art innocent.

Here to thine infant wants are given
Shelter and rest, and purest air,
And milk as pure-but mercy, heaven!
My tears have dropt and mingled there.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOËTHE.

FLOW still, ye tears of sorrow,

Tears of eternal love;

No gay returning morrow

Shall e'er my grief remove.

Alas! viewed by that dim desponding eye,

From which despair, not patience, dries the tear, How dead, how drear, how silent, how forsaken, Does the wide, desart world appear!

Flow still ye tears of sorrow,

Tears of eternal love;

No gay returning morrow

Shall e'er my grief remove.

STANZAS TO A VALLEY.

FROM THE GERMAN OF J. G. VON SALIS.

SWEET Valley, bounded by these pine-clad hills,
Ye meads, just seen thro' yonder opening glade;
Ye darksome groves, ye softly murmuring rills,
Thou cot, conceal'd beneath yon' walnut's shade;

From the high summit of this mount, blest scene, With transport does a wanderer hail thy charms; 'Mid' Nature's beauties, tranquil and serene,

He seeks a refuge from the world's alarms.

Oh bid him welcome then, ye verdant steeps!
Oh bid him welcome then, ye flowery brakes;-
Lull'd in your bosom every sorrow sleeps,

While only mild and calm reflection wakes:

My life's career is to contracted bounds
Confin'd, as thine, oh! seat of soft delight!-
And, as the end of yon' meandering rounds,
Its close is veil'd in darkness from my sight.

Ambition's vessel, on a faithful shore

Here rests in peace, her anchor sweet content; Here curiosity is seen no more,

With prying eye exploring each event.

Malignity aims not her venom here

Against mild innocence' unguarded breast;
Nor mid' the aspens that are rustling near
Does hissing scorn erect her serpent's crest.

Care seeks not, with o'erclouding brow and mind,
Το pry into the future's dreary waste;

No place of rest can pallid envy find:

Of vain remorse no footsteps can be trac❜d.

But o'er the grassy meads the Muses rove,
Or by yon' stream that thro' the valley strays;
While inspiration whispers thro' the grove,
And sportive fancy mid' the foliage plays.

From the white village church, amid those trees,
Ne'er does the midnight clang of terror sound;
Nor o'er this Tempe does the balmy breeze
E'er waft heart-rending notes of discord round.

The fearful din of clashing weapons ne'er

The echo of that ivied cavern wakes;

But, while the herdsman's horn sounds free from care, To the sweet shepherd's pipe the morning breaks.

In the soft meads the lowing herds repose,

The wild-goats browze upon the steepy rocks; While from the mouldering tower, at evening's close, The screech-owl hoots amid the falling blocks.