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-And now, Philanthropy! thy rays divine
Dart round the globe from Zembla to the line;
O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light,
Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night.
From realm to realm, with cross or crescent crown'd,
Where'er mankind and misery are found,
O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of snow,
Thy Howard journ'ying seeks the house of Wo.
Down many a winding step to dungeons dank,
Where Anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank;
To caves bestrew'd with many a mould'ring bone,
And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan;
Where no kind bars a whisp'ring friend disclose,
No sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows,
He treads, inemulous of fame or wealth,
Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health;
With soft assuasive eloquence expands
Pow'r's rigid heart, and opes his clenching hands;
Leads stern-ey'd Justice to the dark domains,
If not to sever, to relax the chains;
Or guides awaken'd Mercy through the gloom,
And shows the prison sister to the tomb!-
Gives to her babes the self-devoted wife,
To her fond husband liberty and life!-
-The spirits of the good, who bend from high
Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye,
When first, array'd in Virtue's purest robe,
They saw her Howard traversing the globe;
Saw round his brows her sunlike glory blaze
In arrowy circles of unwearied rays;
Mistook a mortal for an angel guest,
And ask'd what seraph foot the earth impress'd.
Onward he moves !—Disease and Death retire,
-And murm'ring demons hate him, and admire.
TH HE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flow'r, And weigh'd down it's beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapp'd it-it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with it's owner awhile;
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT.
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
MARIA! I have ev'ry good
For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhymė.
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.
What favour, then, not yet possess'd,
Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,
To thy whole heart's desire?
None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;
There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtless, one in thine.
That wish, on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild,
("Tis blameless, be it what it may,)
I wish it all fulfill'd.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
Endite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning;
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations;
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, hast thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air
It floats a vapour now,
Impell'd through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,
To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot
Of all that ever pass'd my pen
So soon to be forgot!
Phœbus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,
Give wit, that what is left
With equal grace below.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
SHE came-she is gone-we have met—
To meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last ev'ning ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paus'd under many a tree,
And much she was charm'd with a tone
Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who had witness'd so lately her own.
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more, And ev❜n to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes,
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times,
Than all that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above;
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
"Tis Nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May ev❜n our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam;