Thus, the chief on Egypt's thirsty coast,

For Cleopatra, deemed the "world well lost."

V.

Who is he with looks of care;

Trem❜lous voice, and feeble knees; Tattered weeds, and hoary hair;

Shivering in the summer breeze? Ha! 'tis Avarice, poor, and old, Starving 'midst his hoarded gold,

Panting to approach thy fane; Wildly fixed, his glaring eye,

Hark! he heaves a hollow sigh, Frighted, views thy gaudy tinselled train ; Roused to rage at Dissipation's reign ; Fain to fly-alas! he knows not where! See him, sinking nerveless in Despair.

VI.

Thronging crowds appear in view,

Statesmen, hunting after power;

Some for ribbands red, or blue;
Patriots, bawling by the hour;
Jockies spurring; Sophists jangling;
Critics mending; Pedants wrangling;
Squaring circles; framing creeds;
Heroes, grasping withered laurels ;

Duellists, settling brothel quarrels ;
Superstition, counting o'er her beads;

Whiskers, Wigs, Toupees, and empty heads:

While gray threescore, in muslin, gauze, and lace, With carmine blushes, hobbles in the chace.

VII.

FOLLY, I have joined the throng,
Worshipped often at thy shrine;

Penned thee many an idle song,
Hailed thy triumph as divine :

On thy syren form I've gazed,
While thy witching hand has raised
Air-built castles, towering high;
Painted many a prospect bright,
Visions of illusive light,

Fairer than the rainbow's richest dye,
Fleet as streamers in the polar sky;
Meteor light around thy temple smiled;
Still I followed, and was still beguiled!

VIII.

Hence! thou bane of human bliss!
Sage Experience points my way;
Wooes me from thy dread abyss;
Reason chides my long delay.

Leave me to my humble lot,
Fir-clad hill, and sheltered cot,

Purling brook, and flowery dell;

LAURA'S smile, to cheer my home;

Hope that whispers bliss to come;

Laugh, but leave me, still, with these to dwell!

FOLLY, take a long-thy last farewell:

Never dare again to cross my way,

Or meet me only on an April-day!

ODE

For the New-year, 1808.

I.

ON

N proud Bennevis' towering height,

That sternly braves the wintry storm,
Sublime, in native glory bright,

Sat British FREEDOM's sacred form;
While murky clouds around her spread,
In azure skies she raised her head,

Her throne the bright perennial snow; She marked her cliffs and craggy shores, Round which the bellowing tempest roars, Her dark brown hills, and fruitful vales below With solemn mein,

And smile serene,

I

Her sceptre pointing o'er the rolling main,

She sung the deeds of former days;

The rocks re-echoed back her lays ;

And hallowed shades of Scotian heroes slain,

Leaned from the clouds, and listened to the magic strain.

II.

She sung, when Rome's imperial lord
(Surrounding nations humbled low,)

O'er Britain waved his gory sword,
Her fate impending in the blow;
Of Scandinavia's plundering swarms;
And Cimbrian heroes, great in arms,
Who sought to quench her sacred flame;

Of Scythian wanderers, fierce in fight;

Of names, now lost in ancient night;

Or only found, enrolled in Britain's fame.

The notes she sung,

Responsive rung;

And shades unseen, the darling strains prolong;

Till wafted on the evening gale,

Wild floating o'er the distant vale,