With humbler tribes, that luscious sweets distil,
In wild-wood glen, or grace the heath-clad-hill.

The muse reluctant, leaves gay Flora's bower,
Where Nature frolics with unbounded power;
Her magic pencil dipp'd in every dye,

And mingling shade that Fancy can supply.

Such are the musings of a pensive mind,
On mossy bank, or shelving rock reclined;
Who haply, 'scaped the crowd's unceasing noise,

May steal an hour, to muse on former joys,

On simple pleasures, unadorned by art,

That warmed the fancy, while they touched the heart:

The setting sun, reflected from the stream,
Gay insects, sporting in his lingering beam,
The star of eve, seen through the waving trees,
Their green-leaves flickering, in the welkin breeze;
The black-bird's mellow song that echoed round;
Rich fragrant fields, with future plenty crowned;
Gray, misty lakes, brown rocks, and dappled sky;
How pleasant to a youthful minstrel's eye!
Who haply, now, as fades young Fancy's fire,
Finds riper age, more serious thoughts inspire;
And as he strays, 'midst Nature's ample store,

Where once he wondered-pauses to adore.

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For, who can view yon splendid starry host,
Where vision fails, in subtle ether lost;

This lower sphere, with all its countless train,
That cleave the air, or skim the liquid main,
Or clothe the earth, from Man, the lord of all,
Down to the gray-moss on the mouldering wall;
O who can mark each still continued race,
Their varied links, and nice gradations trace;
Where, order, use, and elegance combine,
And fail to find Omnipotence divine?

Yes! He who guides the rolling orbs above,
Spreads every leaf that flutters in the grove;
Breathes health and fragrance in each balmy gale;
Pours the clear streamlet, gliding in the vale;
Extends the vast Atlantic's rolling floods;

And clothes the forest with its waving woods; Guides the green tendril round the summer bower; Shines in the dew, and blushes in the flower!

The humblest bud, that blossoms to the morn,

The meanest insect, on its bosom borne,

Live by the fiat of that mighty hand,

Who launched the spheres, and bade the skies expand. Yes, power supreme! thy plastic hand I see!

And feel, that all things emanate from Thee.

From Thee proceed, to Thee alone, belong

The mental powers that framed this artless song: Then, let me fan the intellectual ray,

Which yet shall ripen into brighter day;

When perfect light shall to my wondering eyes

Unfold the glories of celestial skies.

EPITHALAMIUM,

To a Friend on his Marriage.

THOUGH Friendship prompts the Muse's lay, And she exulting, plumes her wing,

To hail the kind auspicious day,

And Hymen's hallowed Anthem sing;

The song must sure unwelcome prove,

Where new delights lead on the hours:

Who could forego the joys of Love,
To trifle in Parnassian bowers?

What though the Muse should paint a face, Beyond Apelles' Venus fair;

Touch every tint with Titian's grace,

And give the form Minerva's air;

Could Fancy's hand all these combine,

Would you not scorn th' ideal charms; And turning to a nymph divine,

With "fondness, fold her in your arms?"

Should I, with Summer's sweetest rose,
Or virgin lily's spotless white,

Compare the cheek where beauty glows,
And bosom seat of soft delight;

Would you not mock the poet's art,
And loathe the unimpassioned lay?

Your thrilling nerves, and heaving heart,
Can better far, that form pourtray.

A lover, best can tell, how bright
The lustre of his fair one's eye;
Whose soul has drunk its living light,
And lives but in its cloudless sky.

Those ears that have enchanted hung,
When every accent whispered love,
Would only list that seraph tongue,

Which can the heart to rapture move.