Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies,

From her dishevell'd locks she rends the plume;

No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes,

And on her tear-stain'd cheek no roses bloom.

Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway,
Fame's loudest trumpet labors with thy name;
For thee, the Muse awakes her sweetest lay;
And Flattery bids for thee her altars flame.

Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone,

The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil, Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown, While Guilt's thrill'd bosom leaps at Pleasure's smile.

Full oft where Solitude and Silence dwell,
Far, far remote amid the lowly plain,
Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell,
Such is Man's doom; and Pity weeps in vain.

Still Grief recoils-How vainly have I strove
Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand!
Tir'd, I submit; but yet, O yet remove,
Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand!

Yet for a while let the bewilder'd soul
Find in society relief from woe;

O yield a while to Friendship's soft control!

Some respite, Friendship, wilt thou not bestow!

Come then, Philander, whose exalted mind

Looks down from far on all that charms the great; For thou canst bear, unshaken and resign'd,

The brightest smiles, the blackest frowns of Fate.

Come thou, whose love unlimited, sincere,
Nor Faction cools, nor Injury destroys;
Who lend'st to Misery's moan a pitying ear,
And feel'st with ecstasy another's joys:

Who know'st man's frailty, with a favouring eye,
And melting heart, behold'st a brother's fall!
Who, unenslav'd by Fashion's narrow tye,
With manly freedom follow'st Nature's call.

And bring thy Delia, sweetly-smiling fair,
Whose spotless soul no rankling thoughts deform;
Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care,
And harmonize the thunder of the storm.

Though blest with wisdom, and with wit refin'd,
She courts no homage, nor desires to shine;
In her each sentiment sublime is join'd

To female softness and a form divine.

Come, and disperse th' involving shadows drear;
Let chasten'd Mirth the social hours employ:
O catch the swift-wing'd moment while 'tis near,
On swiftest wing the moment flies of joy.

Ev'n while the careless disencumber'd soul
Sinks all dissolving into Pleasure's dream,
Even then to time's tremendous verge we roll
With headlong haste along life's surgy stream.

Can Gaiety the vanish'd years restore,

Or on the withering limbs fresh beauty shed, Or soothe the sad inevitable hour,

Or chear the dark, dark mansions of the Dead?

Still sounds the solemn knell in Fancy's ear,
That call'd Eliza to the silent tomb :

With her how jocund roll'd the sprightly year!
How shone the nymph in Beauty's brightest bloom?

Ah! Beauty's bloom avails not in the

grave, Youth's lofty mien, nor Age's awful grace: Moulder alike unknown the Prince and Slave, Whelm'd in th' enormous wreck of human race.

The thought-fix'd portraiture, the breathing bust,
The arch with proud memorials array'd,
The long-liv'd pyramid shall sink in dust,
To dumb Oblivion's ever-desart shade.

Fancy from Joy still wanders far astray;
Ah! Melancholy, how I feel thy power!
Long have I labor'd to elude thy sway—

But 'tis enough; for I resist no more.

The traveller thus, that o'er the midnight waste Through many a lonesome path is doom❜d to roam, 'Wilder'd and weary sits him down at last

For the long night, and distant far his home.

THE balmy Zephyrs o'er the woodland stray,
And gently stir the bosom of the lake :
The fawns, that panting in the covert lay,

Now thro' the bloomy park their revels take.

Pale rise the rugged hills that skirt the North,
The wood glows yellow'd by the evening rays;
Silent and beauteous flows the silver Forth,

And Aman murmuring thro' the willows strays.

But ah! what means this silence in the grove,
Where oft the wild-notes sooth'd the love-sick boy?
Why cease in Mary's bower the songs of Love,
The songs of Love, of Innocence, and Joy?