A SONNET.

Yet say, our footsteps who can guide,

Delusion's dream dispel;

Destroy that vanity and pride,

Which fill the humblest dell.

Pray then, avaunt! ye Cynic crew,
Whom nothing can delight;

Tho' Nature shines in lov'liest hue,
Ye turn her charms to night.

If mirth displays her laughing mien,

Or honour points to fame.

One parting glass, oh! let us share,

And former days recall;

Again retrace each blooming fair,
Who grac'd the festive hall.

Again retrace the absent friends,
Dispers'd o'er many a clime;

While her soft magic, Mem'ry lends,

And scorns the march of Time.

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The banquet to inspire;

Whose smile can each reverse defy,

When public contests tire.

One parting kiss, oh! don't refuse,

A pledge of future joy;

Chaste as the fam'd Pierian Muse,

Nor Dian could annoy.

Dispel the tear that trembling fills,

That rapture-beaming eye;

Dispel those dark foreboding ills,
Nor heave the pensive sigh.

Bid Hope her golden dream revive,
And thro' her heav'nly view;

The ling'ring moments will arrive,

Each pleasure to renew.

And humbly bowing to that Power,

Which all admit divine;

Long may we brighten each dull hour,

With Friendship, Love, and Wine.

UPON A

SQUIRREL, CLIMBING A TREE,

UNDER WHICH A FAVOURITE TERRIER HAD BEEN BURIED.

THOU playful tenant of this shelter'd grove,
Whose nimble steps, the dewy woodlands rove!
No fierce intruder marks with eager eye,
Where thy poor nest and humble offspring lie.

Enjoy that boon, by gracious Heav'n decreed,
To all that range the forest, or the mead;
To all that cleave the billow or the air,
(Not one beneath its providential care ;)

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LINES UPON A SQUIRREL.

Survey the copse, explore the flow'ry plain,
In safety then thy little home regain ;

Fear not thy freedom-dear as India's mine,

Nor dread in fetters and restraint to pine.

For in this silent, this romantic glade,

A long-lov'd fav'rite's cold remains are laid;
Whose sportive gambols, and enliv’ning power,
Could once exhilarate a lonesome hour.

For him these woods, alas! no more can please,
No more with joy he scents the tainted breeze;
No more his gestures void of guile or art,
Shew the emotions of a grateful heart.

Or when departing from the rustic hall,

As rural pastimes and retirement pall,

No more his features, downcast and forlorn,
Prove that one being, will our absence mourn.

With many a flower-the Lares strew'd his mould,
(As yon grey shepherd early sought the fold ;)
While the poor red-breast sung a fun'ral dirge,
As Eve's pale star seem'd dimly to emerge.

LINES UPON A SQUIRREL.

'Ere then we join gay London's busy train,

Or pleasure echoes her seductive strain;

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Let his poor relics supplicate a tear,

And may each peaceful home, as warm a friend endear.