And much thy kindness gave me ease;
For o'er the past as thought would stray,
That thought thy voice as oft retriev'd,
To scenes which fair before us lay.

And there, in happier hours, the walk Has frequent pleas'd with friendly talk; From theme to theme that wander'd stillThe long detail of where we had been, And what we' had heard, and what we' had seen; And what the poet's tuneful skill, And what the painter's graphic art, Or antiquarian's searches keen, Of calm amusement could impart.

Then oft did Nature's works engage,
And oft we search'd Linnæus' page;
The Scanian Sage, whose wondrous toil
Had class'd the vegetable race :
And, curious, oft from place to place
We rang'd, and sought each different soil,
Each different plant intent to view,
And all the marks minute to trace,
Whence he his nice distinctions drew.

O moments these, not ill employ'd!
O moments, better far enjoy'd
Than those in crowded cities pass'd;
Where oft to Luxury's gaudy reign
Trade lends her feeble aid in vain,
Till Pride, a bankrupt wretch at last,
Bids Fraud his specious wiles essay,
Youth's easy confidence to gain,
Or Industry's poor pittance rend away!

RECRUITING.

I HATE that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
And all that Misery's hand bestows,

To fill the catalogue of human woes.

WRITTEN AFTER

READING SOME MODERN LOVE VERSES.

TAKE hence this tuneful Trifler's lays!
I'll hear no more the' unmeaning strain
Of Venus' doves, and Cupid's darts,
And killing eyes, and wounded hearts;
All Flattery's round of fulsome praise,
All Falsehood's cant of fabled pain.

Bring me the Muse whose tongue has told
Love's genuine, plaintive, tender tale;
Bring me the Muse whose sounds of woe
Midst Death's dread scenes so sweetly flow,

When Friendship's faithful breast lies cold,
When Beauty's blooming cheek is pale :
Bring these-I like their grief sincere;
It soothes my sympathetic gloom :
For, oh! Love's genuine pains I've borne,
And Death's dread rage has made me mourn;
I've wept o'er Friendship's early bier,
And dropt the tear on Beauty's tomb.

THE MUSE;

OR, POETICAL ENTHUSIASM.

THE Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
The Poet's birth, I ask not where,
His place, his name, they're not my care;
Nor Greece nor Rome delights me more
Than Tagus' bank,* or Thames's shore :†
From silver Avon's flowery side
Though Shakspeare's numbers sweetly glide,
As sweet, from Morven's desert hills,
My ear the voice of Ossian fills.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
Nor bigot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me blame the page;
I scorn not all that Dryden sings,
Because he flatters courts and kings;

And from the master lyre of Gray,
When pomp of music breaks away,
Not less the sound my notice draws,
For that 'tis heard in Freedom's cause.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Where Wealth's bright sun propitious shines,
No added lustre marks the lines;
Where Want extends her chilling shades,
No pleasing flower of Fancy fades;
A scribbling peer's applauded lays
Might claim, but claim in vain, my praise
From that poor Youth, whose tales relate
Sad Juga's fears and Bawdin's fate.*

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
When Fame her wreath well-earn'd bestows,
My breast no latent envy knows;
My Langhorne's verse I lov'd to hear,
And Beattie's song delights my ear;
And his, whom Athens' Tragic Maid
Now leads through Scarning's lonely glade,
While he for British nymphs bids flow
Her notes of terror and of woe.t

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
Or be the verse or blank or rhyme,
The theme or humble or sublime;

If Pastoral's hand my journey leads
Through harvest fields or new-mown meads;

If Epic's voice sonorous calls

To Eta's cliffs* or Salem's walls;†

Enough--the Muse, the Muse inspires !

My soul the tuneful strain admires.

VIEWING THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY.

TO A FRIEND.

How steep yon mountains rise around,
How bold yon gloomy woods ascend!
How loud the rushing torrents sound
That midst these heaps of ruin bend,
Where one arch'd gateway yet remains,
And one lone aisle its roof retains,
And one tall turret's walls impend!

Here once a self-sequester'd train
Renounc'd life's tempting pomp and glare;
Rejected power, relinquish'd gain,
And shun'd the great, and shun'd the fair :
The voluntary slaves of toil,
By day they till'd their little soil,

By night they woke, and rose to prayer.

Though Superstition much we blame,
That bade them thus consume their years;
Their motive still our praise must claim,

• See Mr. Glover's Leonidas, alluded to as an example of classical dignity and simplicity.

† See Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, alluded to as an example of Gothie fancy and magnificence.