His mansion, that pavilion fair diffus'd
Along the shady brink; in this recess
To wear the appointed season of his youth,
Till riper hours should open to his toil
The high communion of superior minds,
Of consecrated heroes and of gods.
Nor did the Sire Omnipotent forget

His tender bloom to cherish; nor withheld
Celestial footsteps from his green abode.
Oft from the radiant honours of his throne,
He sent whom most he lov'd, the sovran fair,
The effluence of his glory, whom he plac'd
Before his eyes for ever to behold;
The goddess from whose inspiration flows
The toil of patriots, the delight of friends;
Without whose work divine, in heaven or earth,
Nought lovely, nought propitious comes to pass,
Nor hope, nor praise, nor honour. Her the sire
Gave it in charge to rear the blooming mind,
The folded powers to open, to direct
The growth luxuriant of his young desires,
And from the laws of this majestic world

To teach him what was good. As thus the nymph
Her daily care attended, by her side

With constant steps her gay companions stay'd:
The fair Euphrosyne, the gentle queen
Of smiles, and graceful gladness, and delights
That cheer alike the hearts of mortal men
And powers immortal. See the shining pair!
Behold, where from his dwelling now disclos'd
They quit their youthful charge, and seek the skies.
I look'd, and on the flowery turf there stood
Between two radiant forms a smiling youth,
Whose tender cheeks display'd the vernal flower
Of beauty; sweetest innocence illum'd
His bashful eyes, and on his polish'd brow
Sate young simplicity. With fond regard

He view'd the associates, as their steps they mov'd;
The younger chief his ardent eyes detain'd,
With mild regret invoking her return.
Bright as the star of evening she appear'd
Amid the dusky scene. Eternal youth
O'er all her form its glowing honours breath'd;
And smiles eternal from her candid eyes
Flow'd, like the dewy lustre of the morn
Effusive trembling on the placid waves.
The spring of heaven had shed its blushing spoils
To bind her sable tresses: full diffus'd
Her yellow mantle floated in the breeze;
And in her hand she wav'd a living branch
Rich with immortal fruits, of power to calm
The wrathful heart, and from the brightening eyes
To chase the cloud of sadness. More sublime
The heavenly partner mov'd. The prime of age
Compos'd her steps. The presence of a god,
High on the circle of her brow enthron'd,
From each majestic motion darted awe,
Devoted awe! till cherish'd by her looks
Benevolent and meek, confiding love
To filial rapture soften'd all the soul.
Free in her graceful hand she pois'd the sword
Of chaste dominion. An heroic crown

Display'd the old simplicity of pomp

Around her honour'd head. A matron's robe,
White as the sunshine streams through vernal clouds,
Her stately form invested. Hand in hand
The immortal pair forsook the enamel'd green,
Ascending slowly. Rays of limpid light

Gleam'd round their path; celestial sounds were heard,

And through the fragrant air ethereal dews
Distill'd around them; till at once the clouds
Disparting wide in midway sky, withdrew
Their airy veil, and left a bright expanse
Of empyrean flame, where spent and drown'd,
Afflicted vision plung'd in vain to scan
What object it involv'd. My feeble eyes
Endur'd not. Bending down to earth I stood,
With dumb attention. Soon a female voice,
As watery murmurs sweet, or warbling shades,
With sacred invocation thus began:

Father of gods and mortals! whose right arm
With reins eternal guides the moving heavens,
Bend thy propitious ear. Behold well pleas'd
I seek to finish thy divine decree.
With frequent steps I visit yonder seat
Of man, thy offspring; from the tender seeds
Of justice and of wisdom, to evolve

The latent honours of his generous frame;
Till thy conducting hand shall raise his lot
From earth's dim scene to these ethereal walks,
The temple of thy glory. But not me,
Not my directing voice he oft requires,
Or hears delighted: this enchanting maid,
The associate thou hast given me, her alone
He loves, O Father! absent her he craves;
And but for her glad presence ever join'd,
Rejoices not in mine: that all my hopes
This thy benignant purpose to fulfil,
I deem uncertain: and my daily cares
Unfruitful all and vain, unless by thee
Still farther aided in the work divine.

She ceas'd; a voice more awful thus reply'd:
O thou! in whom for ever I delight,
Fairer than all the inhabitants of Heaven,
Best image of thy author! far from thee
Be disappointment, or distaste, or blame;
Who soon or late shall every work fulfil,
And no resistance find. If man refuse
To hearken to thy dictates; or allur'd
By meaner joys, to any other power
Transfer the honours due to thee alone;
That joy which he pursues he ne'er shall taste.
That power in whom delighteth ne'er behold.
Go then, once more, and happy be thy toil;
Go then! but let not this thy smiling friend
Partake thy footsteps. In her stead, behold!
With thee the son of Nemesis I send;

The fiend abhorr'd! whose vengeance takes account
Of sacred order's violated laws.

See where he calls thee, burning to be gone,
Fierce to exhaust the tempest of his wrath
On yon devoted head. But thou, my child,
Control his cruel phrenzy, and protect

Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them greet,

And gingerbread y-rare; now certes, doubly sweet.

See to their seats they hye with merry glee,
And in beseemly order sitten there;
All but the wight of bum y-galled, he,
Abhorreth bench and stool, and form, and chair;
(This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair;)
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast,
Convulsions intermitting, does declare

His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest; And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd.

His face besprent with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face that seems a purple flower,
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All smear'd and sully'd by a vernal shower.
O the hard bosoms of despotic power!
All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour:
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower, shall
claim,

If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.

Behind some door, in melancholy thought, Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; Ne for his fellows' joyance careth aught, But to the wind all merriment resigns; And deems it shame if he to peace inclines; And many a sullen look ascance is sent, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past resent.

Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be! But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires: Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres, All coward arts, is valour's generous heat; The firm fixt breast which fit and right, requires, Like Vernon's patriot soul; more justly great Than craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false deceit ;

Yet, nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!

Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo;
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die!
Though now he crawl along the ground so low,
Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high,
Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design,
Low lays the house which that of cards doth build,
Shall Dennis be! if rigid fate incline,
And many an epic to his rage shall yield;
And many a poet quit th' Aonian field;

And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear; As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd, Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here ?"

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, And liberty unbars her prison-door; And like a rushing torrent out they fly, And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o'er With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run. Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I imFor well may freedom erst so dearly won, [plore! Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun.

Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers; For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid; For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts, where proud ambition towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king..

See in each sprite some various bent appear! These rudely carol most incondite lay; Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Salute the stranger passing on his way; Some builden fragile tenements of clay; Some to the standing lake their courses bend, With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play; Thilk to the huxter's savoury cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.

Young Dawson was a gallant boy,

A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.

One tender maid, she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favour'd youth astray;
The day the rebel clans appear'd,

O had he never seen that day!

Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true-love's cheek,
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale, or yet so chill appear.

With faultering voice, she weeping said,
Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart;
Think not thy death shall end our loves,

For thou and I will never part.

Yet might sweet mercy find a place, And bring relief to Jemmy's woes; O George, without a pray'r for thee, My orisons should never close.

The gracious prince that gave him life, Would crown a never-dying flame; And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lisp the giver's name.

But though he should be dragg'd in scorn
To yonder ignominious tree;
He shall not want one constant friend
To share the cruel fates' decree.

O then her mourning-coach was call'd,
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Though borne in a triumphal car,

She had not lov'd her favourite more.

She follow'd him, prepar❜d to view

The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes,
With calm and stedfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly lov'd so long; And stifled was that tuneful breath, Which in her praise had sweetly sung: And sever'd was that beauteous neck, Round which her arms had fondly clos'd; And mangled was that beauteous breast, On which her love-sick head repos'd:

And ravish'd was that constant heart,

She did to every heart prefer; For though it could its king forget, "Twas true and loyal still to her.

Amid those unrelenting flames,

She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,

Yet, yet, she cry'd, I follow thee.

My death, my death alone can show

The pure and lasting love I bore; Accept, O Heav'n! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.

The dismal scene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearse retir'd; The maid drew back her languid head,

And, sighing forth his name, expir'd.

Though justice ever must prevail,

The tear my Kitty sheds is due: For seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, yet so true.

EDWIN AND EMMA.

Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain. The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age."

Far in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a sheltering wood,

SHAKESP. Twelfth Night.

The safe retreat of health and peace,

An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's eye;
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest, and die.

The softest blush that nature spreads

Gave colour to her cheek:

Such orient colour smiles through heaven,
When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great-ones scorn
This charmer of the plains:

That sun, who bids their diamonds blaze,
To paint our lily deigns.

Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair;
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair.

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art;
And from whose eye, serenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bosom lodg'd a wish,
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow!

But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.

His sister, who, like envy form'd,

Like her in mischief joy'd,

To work them harm, with wicked skill,

Each darker art employ'd.

The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all-unfeeling as the clod,

From whence his riches grew.

Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmov'd:
Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapprov❜d.

In Edwin's gentle heart, a war Of differing passions strove : His heart, that durst not disobey, Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd her sight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.

Oft too on Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,
In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,

The midnight mourner stray'd.

His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd, A deadly pale o'ercast:

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed;
And weary'd Heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrows shed.

'Tis past! he cry'd—but if your souls
Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love!

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear :
Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care,

A cruel sister she!

Forbade what Emma came to say;
"My Edwin, live for me!"

Now homeward as she hopeless wept,
The church-yard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.