THE MINSTREL.

FOR THE POLYANTHOS.

POWER OF LOVE.

ADDRESSED TO AN ABSENT FRIEND.

WHAT binds the heart of man to man
In friendship's warm alcove ?
Say, if in consciousness thou can,
If 'tis not power of Love.

The swain, that whistles at his plough,
Or falls the stately grove,

With simple speech can tell thee how
He tastes the power of Love.

The shepherd, happiest in life,
Who guards his little drove,
Unknown to worthless show and strife,
Enjoys the power of Love.

What bids the tender, feeling heart
Sigh like the turtle-dove,
When from its mate 'tis forc'd to part,
If 'tis not power of Love?

What is it spreads a lively charm

Around the winter's stove,

That can the roughest looks disarm,
If 'tis not power of Love?

What holds our thoughts from damp despair,

And bids them cheerful move,

If 'tis not hopes of better fare,
From heavenly power of Love.

What leads the liveliest thoughts we have
To the Supreme above,

Or holds them from the gloomy grave,
If 'tis not power of Love?

Then Thou, who couldst my heart engage,
And still thy friendship prove,
Shall find me thine in every age,
Rul'd by the power of Love.

AMALISSA.

Dorchester, Dec. 1805.

FOR THE POLYANTHOS.

The following humourous piece is the classical effusion of a former son of Harvard, and though once published, is in my opinion well worth reprinting.

CUM ita semper me amares,

How to reward thee all my care is,
Amice admodum amande,

Prithee leave off thy drinking brandy;

Vides quo sorte jaceam hiç,

And all for this, oh sick! oh sick!
Jam fumi vexant matrem piam ;

Tom Row was ne'er so sick as I am;
Et properat mors cito pede;

Then thus my chattels I bequeath thee.
Imprimis, terra do cadaver

;

But for my foul I know who'll have her.
Secundo, mi amice bone

My breeches take, but there's no money.
Caligas, calceos, dabo hos,

B.

Tho' they're not paid for yet, God knows.
Et vestes etiam tibi dentur,

Wear them for my fake if you'll venture.
Pediculos (si possis) pellas,

But lice i'faith are gentlemen's fellows:

Do libros tibi et totam musam
If I should live I ne'er should use 'em.
Spero quod his contentus eris,

But I've a friend almost as dear is.
Vale, nec plura tibi dentur,

Adieu, dear Tom, my love pray send her.

CANZON.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS. [Among the numerous imitations of Anacreon's Wandering Cupid, there is none in which the playful character of boy. hood has been so well preserved as it is in this little Poem. The destruction of the flowers is an act of mere childish mis

chief, which admirably accords with the " young adopt. @d's” age.......Translator.]

I MET Love wandering o'er the wild,
In semblance of a simple child;
I heard his name, and in the sound
So much of sweet persuasion found,
That, piteous of his tears, I prest
The little darling to my breast,
And watch'd his quiet slumbers there,
With all a father's tender care.

From day to day the orphan grew,
And with him my affection too;
Till at the last, around my mind
The winning boy so closely twin'd,
I learnt his baby form to prize,
Like one of those within mine eyes,
And lov'd the young adopted more
Than ever sire did son before !

I had a bank of favourite flowers,
Which blossom'd e'en in wintry hours,
Content, the bosom's thornless rose,
And Innocence, and Heart's repose;

-Love, like a rude and wanton boy,
Broke into my bowers of joy,

Tore Content's young roses thence,
Kill'd Repose and Innocence!

Ah wretch! what mischief hast thou done
To him who lov'd thee like a son !
How couldst thou dim the doating eyes
Which did thee like their babies prize!
How break the heart of him who prest
Thee, cold and weeping, to his breast,
And watch'd thy quiet slumbers there,
With all a father's tender care?

CANZONET.

FROM THE SAME.

SINCE in this dreary vale of tears,
No certainty but death appears,
Why should we waste our vernal years
In hoarding useless treasure?

No-let the young and ardent mind
Become the friend of human kind,
And in the generous service find

A source of purer pleasure!

Better to live despis'd and poor,
Than Guilt's eternal stings endure;
The future smiles of God shall cure

The wound of earthly woes.

Vain world! did we but rightly feel
What ills thy treacherous charms conceal,
How would we long from thee to steal

To Death-and sweet repofe !

CANZON.

FROM THE SAME.

O WEEP not thus-we both shall know
Ere long a happier doom;
There is a place of rest below,
Where thou and I fhall surely go,
And sweetly sleep, releas'd from woe,
Within the tomb.

My cradle was the couch of Care,
And Sorrow rock'd me in it;
Fate seem'd her saddest robe to wear,
On the first day that saw me there,
And darkly shadow'd with despair
My earliest minute.

E'en then the griefs I now possess,
As natal boons were given;
And the fair form of Happiness,
Which hover'd round intent to bless,
Scar'd by the phantoms of distress.

Flew back to heaven!

For I was made in Joy's despite,
And meant for Misery's slave;
And all my hours of brief delight
Fled, like the speedy winds of night,

Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight

Across my grave!

TO A BUTTERFLY.

ANACREONTICK.

FLUTTERING insect, child of Spring,
Spread thy painted silken wing;
Spread it wide, and gaily play
In Aurora's cheering ray.