ODE TO SOLITUDE.

FAR from Ambition's selfish train, Where Avarice rules the busy day, And patient Folly "hugs his chain,” Enslav'd by Custom's ruthless sway, Lead me, calm spirit! to some still retreat,

Where Silence shares with thee the blooming mead,
Save when at distance heard, in cadence sweet,
The village minstrel tunes his simple reed.
There, free from cares, from jarring passions free,
Oft
may I strike the lyre, sweet Solitude! to thee.
When orient Morn, in blushing pride,

Profusely sheds the glist'ning dew,
Oft let me climb the mountain's side,
And raptur❜d mark the varied view.

When Noon directs on earth his parching ray,

Then let me find the cool, the peaceful shade,

Form'd by embow'ring oaks, in firm array,

O'er some small stream that rustles through the glade: Thither let Fancy lead her magic band,

And o'er my senses wave her soul-entrancing wand.

But when at eve the curfew's knell

Winds slowly thro' the dusky grove,
Pensive I'll seek the rural cell,

Or midst the gloom in silence rove;
And when from village spire the solemn toll
Yields it's sad tribute to the breathless clay;
As calm Reflection steals upon my soul,
The tear unmark'd shall take its silent way;

And mournful oft I'll cull the violet's bloom,
Heave the sad soothing sigh, and dress the clay-cold
tomb.

When Midnight spreads her blackest robe,
And shrouds in sullen mists the sky;
When Terror rules the silent globe,

And phantoms mock the fearful eye;
Parent of all! whose voice the winds obey,
The raving ocean, and the black'ning storm,
Yet stoop'st to guide the sparrow on his way,
And shed'st thy mercy on the struggling worm!
To thee, great God! to thee my voice I'll raise;
Trembling I'll strike the lyre, and hymn thy boundless
praise.

NORWICH, 1796.

A.

TO MISS GRAHAM, OF GARTMORE.

ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME PERFUMES.

WHY bribe with fragrant gifts the languid muse?
Cast but a glance--what poet can refuse?
The glorious lustre of your eye prevails,
More than the sweetness of Arabian gales:
Soon will Arabia's odorous breezes die,
But beams immortal sparkle in your eye.

REV. J. STIRLING.

RETIREMENT.

BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.

"WEAVE o'er my brow, ye shades, your amplest gloom;
Deepen your murmurs at my feet, ye waves,
Precipitately plung'd; ye snow-crown'd hills
On whose high front the unstooping moon may rest
Her wearied car; and ye that wildly spread,
Vallies, your verdant bosom to the sun,
Rich with his genial ray, my druid step,
If due invok'd, receive; if now a strain
Loose from the check of art may hope to charm
Your mute attention, wave ye awful shades."

Such were the strains that from the pensive breast
Of old EUGENIO, smarting with the wrongs,
And sated with the vanities of life,

And now retreating from the haunts of men,
Not without rapture tho' unbidden flow'd.
Awhile he paus'd—and o'er the sylvan tracts
Of lonely Nature cast a long survey,
Silent, yet pleas'd; upon his tranquil soul,
As on a mirror, the expansive scene,
Rich in variety and greatly fair,

New images imprest: their native charm

Work'd on each sense, till his admiring thought

Burst from its silence. Muse, record his thoughts!

And, if that grace be not denied thy claim,
In just Simplicity's proportioned phrase,

Not rude, not tasteless, not to passion weak,
Such as may win the approaches of the heart
Beyond the strutting pomp of giant words.

"For you, ye blue-ey'd Genii of the woods, (Thus he renewed the ardor of his strain) That wake the unfolding Spring, that bless from cold The infant plants, and train the leafy scene To full maturity of verdant life!

Naids, for you, and all in shells that haunt
The evening stream, to your romantic shrines
I now should bend, your votary; but the dreams
Of classic days, and ye are of their train,
Are fled-then with me better may I bring,
Nor fabulous be they deem'd, nor obsolete,
Fit deities to guard my sylvan reign

And glad these solitudes. What atheist heart
Shall scorn Integrity that knows no ill;
Courage that fears none; or the Briton power
Of Independence? She was wont to bless
Our fathers' footsteps: our effeminate age,
Effeminate and selfish, has exiled

Her liberal spirit from the palace roof,

To search for Freedom in these forest shades.
These are my household Gods. Within their fane
Peace shall be priestess; in their leafy dells
Silence may sleep; along their secret paths
With calm security RETIREMENT rove,
Veiling her step. Me too, ye holy choir,
Admit me to your train! The turbid walks
Of man, in meditative mood, I leave;
Leave, yet resign not or to drear despair,
Or dumb oblivion, the sweet social love,
That linking thought to thought, and heart to heart,
In golden concord, gleams from soul to soul,
And sheds divinity on human breasts.”

Again he paus'd-for stealing o'er his soul, The sad remembrance of his former days Hung, mist-like, on his thought. One natural tear He dropt, due tribute to the friends he lov'd, The loves he lost, the venal friends that fled His plaintive hours, when smit with penuryBut indignation on his cheek permits No second tear: collected, he resumes The rigid tone of VIRTUE's stoic lay.

"O ye loose Bacchants! ye whose low delights Disgrace your day; that share with wine and lust The night; or, sunk in sloth, the social hours Consume; ye, whose mir'd appetites obstruct The light of reason, oh, approach not here! Here Riot raves not-the lewd warbling lute Stirs not the tingling blood-the sensual thought Withers-the Passions wild and ill-inflam'd Faint in the shades of Solitude, and gasp For the lost nourishment of absent vice." "O ye, that softly thro' the mazy dance Of fashion float, in silken luxury fair, That sip, in vanity, the virgin bloom Of beauty, tasteless to the enervate sense! And ye, whose venal toil, from day to day, Plods its unceasing round, who steal from night The sleepless hour, Love's due, to gaze on gold, Recede! nor the sweet breath of solitude Taint with disgust and fear, that freshly blows To the pure sense. The self-supported breast Defying Penury, and with Virtue's pride Glancing contempt on wealth-puff'd Insolence, Or fairer yet, beyond an earthly ken That daring looks,-Religion-lifted thought! "Suit these the relish of degenerate souls?