This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn, While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste HUMAN FRAILTY. WEAK and irresolute is man; The bow well bent, and smart the spring, But Passion rudely snaps the string, And it revives again. Some foe to his upright intent But Pleasure wins his heart. "Tis here the folly of the wise Bound on a voyage of awful length But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast: The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, A COMPARISON. THE lapse of time and rivers is the same, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. ANOTHER. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, SONG ON PEACE. AIR-"My fond shepherds of late," &c. No longer I follow a sound; No longer a dream I pursue; I have sought thee in splendour and dress, The voice of true Wisdom inspires; "Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope And the summit of all our desires. Peace may be the lot of the mind That seeks it in meekness and love: SONG. AIR-"The Lass of Patie's Mill.” WHEN all within is peace, How nature seems to smile! With open hand she showers And sooth the silent hours. It is content of heart Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees: Can make a wintry sky Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye The vast majestic globe, So beauteously array'd A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart, And longs to be at rest. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Written when the News arrived, To the March in Scipio. TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! Eight hundred of the brave, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; When Kempenfelt went down, |