FOR THE POLYANTHOS.

TO MELANCHOLY.

NO! SWEETLY soothing Melancholy,.
Thou calmer of the human breast,
Who fly'st the haunts of noisy Folly,
To seek the lonely and distrest;

Tho' Fashion's giddy sons despise thee,
Preferring Pleasure's crowded train,
Above their fancied joys I prize thee,
And bless thy tranquil, pensive reign.

SELECTED.

The following delicate effusion of morality is selected from LITERARY HOURS, by Dr. Drake, Vol. II.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awile,
To blush and gently smile;
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight.
And so to bid good-night?

'Twas pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to shew your worth,

And lose you quite..

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon.things have
Their end, tho'.ne'er so brave :.
And after they have shewn their pride
Like you awhile they glide.
Into the grave.

:

THE SAUNTERER.

BY JAMES MERCER, ESQ.

FULL of the dream of keen delight,
In youth a thousand toils we prove,
We climb ambition's fearful height,

[love.

And seek, thro' midnight gloom, the bow't of

But with the ensuing morn

The proffer'd bliss we scorn,

And throbs of new desire our rest annoy;

Distemper fires the veins,

The fev'rish thirst remains,

And passion's bitter dregs pollute the cup of joy.

Then happier far, in life's decay,
If neither gout nor stone assail,
If conscience, at the close of day,
With angel visitation bid us hail;
When frantick hopes are past,
We taste repose at last,'

And reap sincere delight from homely cheer;
For, by the mossy cell,

Where quiet loves to dwell,

The streams of comfort rise, and run forever clear.

Assembled round the social hearth,

When winter holds his rigid sway,
We share the fruits of temperate mirth,

Nor fail to charm the dreary hours away-
And O! the joy that streams

Amid the coming gleams,

When blossoms ope, and birds are on the wing; What time by musick led,

The garden path I tread,

And meet the balmy breath of renovating spring But not to formal walks confin'd,

While yet the jocund seasons reign,

I leave the garden wall behind,

With all the green enclosures of the plain :
And sights, and sounds of joy,

My wand'ring steps decoy

Still farther on, in quest of something new;

'Till past the bushy rill,

I mount yon shelving hill,

(in view.

Where distant spires are kenn'd, and ocean rolls

There, as on rapture's dazzled eye,

The wonders of creation throng,

Devotion wakes, and wafts a sigh

To tracts beyond the limits of my song;

Till, fore'd by growing heat,

I quit the lofty seat,

And hide me from the sun's meridian glare,

Down in some elfin nook,

Beside the pebbly brook,

[care.

Whose sound incessant brings forgetfulness of

E... VOL. 4.

Let sullen fools forever hide

At ev'n I gain the peopled road; Or, led by friendship, turn aside,

To greet my neighbour in his thatch'd abode. With him I pace the fields,

Learn what his harvest yields,

And see his children pass in playful drove;

I know the urchins all

On me by name they call,

[love.

And flatter wrinkled age with many a mark of

As thus my daily round's I

go,

Still some kind office breeds delay

My mite I cheerfully bestow,

To cheer the wand'ring beggar on his way :

And should the buxom lass,

Of yonder hamlet pass,

Fresh blooming, and of harmless favours free;

Safe from her roguish smile,

I hand her o'er the stile,

[than me.

And pray that she might meet with livelier lads

ODE TO THE CROW.

SAY, weary bird, whose level flight, Thus at the dusky hour of night Tends thro' the midway air,

Why yet beyond the verge of day Is lengthen'd out thy dark delay, Adding another to the hours of care 2

The wren within her mossy nest

Has hush'd her little brood to rest; The wood-wild pigeon, rock'd on high,

Has coo'd's last soft note of love;

And fondly nestles by his dove,

[sky,

To guard their downy young from an inclement

Each twittering bill and busy wing,

That flits thro' morning's humid spring,

Is still;-list'ning perhaps so late
To Philomel's enchanting lay,

Who now, asham'd to sing by day,
Trills the sweet sorrows of her fate.

Haste, bird, and nurse thy callow brood,
They call on heav'n and thee for food,
Bleak-on some cliff's neglected tree;
Haste, weary bird, thy laggish flight-
It is the chilling hour of night;
Fit hour of rest for thee !