A MORNING WALK IN SEPTEMBER, 1838.

The golden sun had climb'd the mountain high,
And spread his glories o'er the eastern sky:
I left my bed to stroll my morning's walk,
And spend my wonted hour in mental talk.

Nature has deck'd herself in gaudiest dress,
And gayest air, my waking eyes to bless.
I paus'd, I gaz'd, I listen'd to each sound,
That caught my eye, or reach'd my ear around.

Full, dewy drops the dark hue'd verdure grace, Like brilliant gems that deck the Ethiop's face; While, as they dangled from the hawthorn's

spray,

They seem'd like lamps that glitter'd on my

way.

The village boys, with merry cheerful brow, Run from the cot to make their humble bow;

The busy housewife, while the faggots burn,

Prepares the meal, and waits the hind's return.

The ploughman, whistling, drove his team to field,

The lab'ring road-man here his barrow wheel'd; Anon, the distant dog my ear salutes,

Joining in concert with the shepherd's notes.

The sprightly birds put forth their morning

song,

While from the spire a merry peal was rung;
The harbinger of joy, of hope and fear,
To some fond, simple, and confiding pair.

While thus delighted with the varied scene,
I wander'd on along the pasture green,
A partridge, startled as I near her drew,
Rose, and in terror from my presence flew.

Well pleas'd, no doubt, and happy too was she,
To be so soon from sudden danger free:
But ah! how little do we know our state,
Or see our error till it be too late.

For as she gaily wing'd her speedy flight,
The murd'rous fowler darted on her sight;
Alas, alas! her wings no safety found,
Next moment saw her lifeless on the ground.

Poor simple bird! From thy mischance I trace
A moral for our own unthinking race;
And view the cares our anxious life that fill,
From one false step to shun a fancied ill.

Fond, foolish man, to future fortunes blind,
With ever restless, discontented mind,
Flies from the good he has, his present bliss,
And ends his errors with a fate like this.

With peevish thoughts he views his narrow lot, And leaves his happy home, his peaceful cot,

To slave and toil and sweat on foreign strands, And seek for riches in far distant lands.

Hope still his spirit cheers, as oft he turns His thoughts to home, where milder summer burns,

The hope that plenty may at length repay,
The heavy labours of his youthful day:

Till wise too late begins at last to find,
His real happiness is left behind;

While pale disease, the scourge of Eastern air,
Fills up the measure of his sojourn here.

To fly life's fancied ills, the hardy tar
Seeks foreign climes, and tries the tug of war;
Braves the rude storms on Ocean's bosom vast,
In hopes to gain a peaceful home at last.

The gallant soldier urged with a like desire; Meets the opposing ranks, and dares their fire; And sees through fields of blood, and slaughter'd The happy end of all his former woes.

[foes,

Alas, the chances of the bloody strife,
But haste to rob him of his transient life;
Or bring him maimed to his native shore,
The taste of happiness to know no more.

In humbler walks, the busy, restless mind, Is urg'd the softer scenes of life to find; While ev'ry step and ev'ry scheme they try, But leads them nearer to the ills they fly.

Those very bells that sound upon my ear, Have sweetly rung to many' a happy pair, Whose varied toils through life some unseen hand Has still depriv'd of their expected end.

Thus the boy Icárus, dares the azure sky,
Prepares his wings and spreads them forth to fly;
To shun the dangers of his present state,
Tempts the light air, and tries a doubtful fate.'

His hope of safety here alas, was vain!

Death follows close, and dogs him in his train :