The mansion grand, the rising dome,
With fields and groves I see,
And sometimes wish that such a home
Had been decreed to me.
But stop the wish and check the prayer,
And dare the truth to tell ;—
If sovereign virtue be not there,
'Tis but a splendid hell.
Perhaps the owner feels the frown
Of justice while it warns;
Perhaps upon a bed of down
He wears a crown of thorns;
Or if no furies should corrode,
And heaven and conscience share; Perhaps 'tis the forlorn abode
Of vanity and care.
This costly, this laborious pain,
In bliss t' appear so high,
May be, perhaps, an effort vain,
To tell the world a lie.
Perhaps these luscious prospects cloy
From a too frequent view;
Perhaps they gave my soul a joy
The owner never knew.
At least my fancy there may rove,
Untrespassing, unknown,
There she may sport from grove to grove,
And call them all her own.
There Wit may cull from every bower,
Without offence, or wrong;
And there the Muse may pluck a flower,
To decorate her song.
Howe'er he scorn my rags to see,
Dress'd out in gallant trim;
His fields will look as green to me,
As e'er they did to him.
His aid he may refuse to lend,
His cash go on to hoard;
But still his flowers will condescend,
Their beauty to afford.
Come then, O Poverty, my guide,
Still on my steps attend;
My hope, my solace, and my pride,
My earliest, latest friend;
Life's journey is a maze of woe;
But be thou near my heart;
We oft may quarrel as we go,
But still, we will not part.
When cares impend and I would yield;
When rising ills infest ;
Come, spread around thy powerful shield,
The broadest and the best.
When age creeps on and strength decays;
When end my vain delights;
When sickly suns roll off my days,
And sickly moons my nights;
Though soothing friendship be not nigh,
Its balsam to impart ;
When grief springs bursting from the eye,
Sits throbbing in the heart;
This good at least I must confess,
And so forbear to grieve :-
A world, where little I possess,
I sha'n't be loath to leave.
When life's career at last is check'd ;
And body parts from soul;
When a few tatter'd friends collect
To put me in some hole;
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The selfish world may not bestow,
Perhaps, a single tear;
Yet if there's one, what joy to know
That one will be sincere.
New-Haven, September 15, 1813.
IN CASTITATEM.
Castitas blandi domitrix amoris,
Castitas vitæ specimen prioris,
Labe cum puras soboles colebat
Aureà terras.
Castitas vitæ specimen futuræ,
Morte cum victa, sociata membris
Pura mens puris, radiantis aulam
Incolet æthræ.
Una nec certam Veneris sagittam,
Jura nec fati metuis severi,
Quippe quæ rursus moriente major ;
Morte resurges.
Pura cum puris agites ut ævum
Angelis, quorum studium secuto,
Colliges fructus socios secundæ
Reddita vitæ.
Translation.
TO CHASTITY.
BORN in an age unknown to strife,
And pure as angel forms above,
Sweet pattern of primeval life,
'Tis thine to tame resistless love.
And when, dissolv'd in death, shall lie
The clay, that now invests our frames;
Oh, thou shalt seek a brighter sky,
And light the soul to purer flames.
Love whets his venom'd shaft in vain,
His art, his ire unfelt by thee,
Triumphant over earthly pain,
And over death and destiny.
And when at length in heaven thou dwell
With souls of thy own heavenly mould,
What glorious joys shall round thee swell,
God and the angelic throngs unfold.
SONG.
My weary soul is fu' o' care,
Wee birdies that sae gaily throng;
I'm fu' o' care, my heart is sair,
I canna listen to your sang.
O where I stray by yonder burn
There's not a bonnie gowan grows,
While joys I mourn that ne'er return
But minds o' my fause lover's vows,
O cruel Jamie, far awa',
E'en tho' thou be the death o' me;
Yet sweetly a' thy slumbers fa'
And peacefu' may thy wa ukening be.
From the Latin of Grotius.
ENGAGING that youth to wriggle your fan,
No wonder, dear girl, you're all in a lather;
Yet 'tis right to dissemble as well as you can,
And slily complain of the heat of the weather.
THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.
FROM FLETCHER'S "PURPLE ISLAND."
THRICE, oh thrice happie Shepherd's life and state,
When courts are happinesse unhappie pawns!
His cottage low, and safely humble gate
Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns :
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep:
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