Here will it dwell on ev'ry simple bush,

Which will some trifling incident detail; Near this I've listen'd to the tuneful thrush, On that has warbl'd forth the nightingale.

But 'twas not you, ye little, cheerful throng, That tun'd to rapture all my feeling heart; In vain had warbled forth your ev'ning song, Had that been all that could delight impart.

Far from the busy world and meddling crowd, 'Twas here I've known my happiest hours to

roll,

Free from the gorgeous forms that wait the proud,

And 'freeze the genial current of the soul.'

With kindred spirits form'd by arts refin'd, I've trod the path where lay our ev'ning walk, And even now can mem'ry call to mind

The fav'rite subjects of our social talk.

How have we paus'd great Nature's works to scan, The waving grain, the vegitative sod!

How prais'd the Deity's fond love to man, Rising from 'Nature up to Nature's God!"

Haply, from sober subjects, such as these,

To livelier themes our talk would often stray; When jocund wit our graver thoughts would

ease,

Harmless, yet bright, as Summer light'nings

[play.

The cottage reach'd, when night serene and

grave,

Had thrown o'er Nature's form her mantle

grey;

While Phæbus' horses drank the western wave,

And left the world to her more peaceful sway:

Dear friendship's voice my anxious thoughts would soothe,

And with fair hope my darken'd prospects

raise;

With cheering voice my ruffled cares would smooth,

And bid me look for happier, brighter days.

These scenes are fled, swift as the passing wind,

Which skims along the surface of the main; Unlike the wind, they still have left behind

The marks of their existence deep and plain.

Yes, the remembrance of this now lost bliss,

Within the precincts of my heart I'll wear; That heart, which though of happiness it miss, Still shall such valu'd friends for ever share.

And tho' the Fates forbid, with stern decree,
These once lov'd pleasures ever to return;
Yet this one thing from Fate itself is free,
It cannot bid me cease their loss to mourn.

So the rude tar, when from his aching sight, By fierce succeeding waves his bark is tost,

Now views with sullen joy and stern delight, The remnants of the treasure he has lost.

So the poor bird, whose nest some pilf'ring boy, With wanton hand, has robb'd of all her

young,

Still hov'ring near the spot, with mournful joy,

Sings forth with plaintive note their fun'ral

[song.

Thus I alike, of friendship's charms bereft, Still in my fancy will these scenes pursue; Yes, this much bliss, this pleasure still is left, Tho' to the rest I've bid a last adieu.

ON THE DEATH OF A FEMALE FRIEND.

And is she gone? Her peaceful spirit fled? Her graceful form mix'd with the mould'ring dead?

List, how the murmurs of yon distant bell,
With drowsy toll the dreadful tidings tell!
List, how its tones moan on the troubled air,
And awfully the painful truth declare!
And seems to mourn the loss, with heavy sigh,
Of all that charm'd the soul, or pleas'd the eye.
Oh! that some Muse, whose dull and ebon wings,
O'er human joys her melancholy flings;
Whose sadden'd brow scowls on the garish day,
And scares with frowns life's blissful scenes away;