Shall I the morn's sweet blushes No more with pleasure view? Or lightly tread the rushes, Drench'd in ambrosial dew? Or climb the rugged mountain, To watch the sun's last ray? Or linger where the fountain Reflects the parting day?

For thee, O Health, I languish, And nature blooms in vain; Dispel this potent anguish,

And light my smiles again : Not rains to with'ring flowers, Can half so pleasing be; Or sunshine after showers, As thy dear smiles to me.

THE ADIEU.

ON LEAVING A FAVOURITE PLACE.

"TIS ev'ning, the voice of the lab'rer is still;

The songsters are hush'd into rest;

And thro' the green meadow slow murmurs the rill,

With Cynthia's bright beam on its breast.

To the heart of the poet, how dear is the grove;
To me it is pleasing no more;

For soon I must quit the lone thickets I love,
And a far-distant region explore.

Yet still as o'er bleak barren mountains I go,
Or thro' the wide wilderness roam;

On the scenes of my childhood a tear I'll bestow,
And fondly remember my home.

Perhaps ere again the young showers of May,
The embryo blossom shall lave,

The turf shall emboŝom this mansion of clay,
And the moon shed her beams on my grave.

If so, shall my sighs and afflictions be o'er?
My wand'rings eternally cease?

Shall I reach the blest haven, and land on the shore
Where all is composure and peace?

O, thanks to the Author of life, I may say,
My treasures and joys are above;
And hope to my soul can a promise display,
To meet there the friends whom I love.

Then why do I weep? tho' on earth we must part,
Tho' death must dissever the chain
That binds us together, united in heart,
In glory we'll link it again.

Yet scenes of my childhood, one tender adieu,
Ere I go to behold you no more!

Sweet bowers of bliss, when ye flit from my view,
Ah! what can my comfort restore?

O say, when I roam to the crimson-streak'd west,
Where Erie's wide waters appear;

Shall contentment and piety gladden my breast,
And friendship and sympathy cheer?

Yes, yes, tho' I rove to the earth's farthest bound,
Where the sky and the ocean unite,

If clasp'd in the arms of Religion I'm found,
Sweet peace shall my bosom delight.

THE GRAVE.

There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

WHEN sorrow weighs the spirit down,

And wrongs oppress the brave;
When genius shrinks at fortune's frown,
Who would not bless the grave?

The grave can calm the troubled mind,
And soothe the soul's despair;
The weary child of wo shall find

A sweet oblivion there.

In lucid robes of spotless white,

Religion's angel form

Dispels the shades of death's dark night,
And smiles away the storm.

Then why should Christians fear to die?
Why dread the cypress gloom?
While faith beholds, with cheerful eye,
A bliss beyond the tomb.

What tho' extinction in the grave,

The hopeless sceptic fear?

Can that best gift th' Eternal gave,

Claim but its being here?

The earth shall be dissolv'd by fire,
The stars affrighted fly;

The soul, immortal as its Sire,
The soul shall never die.

CORYDON.

AN ELEGY.

INSCRIBED TO MARY.

THE day is departed, and twilight appears,

And softens the shades on the plain;
The lab'rer returning, lone Philomel bears,
And sweetly re-echoes the strain.

Now, Mary, while silence steals over the grove,
And shadows embosom the glade,

To yon weeping willow we'll pensively rove,
For there is our Corydon* laid.

A young gentleman, who died at Providence, R I. A friend of the Author, but still nearer to her friend Mary

He was a student in the University, and died of a lingering hectic, contracted by a too intense application to study. He wrote a beautiful Pastoral, some time before his death, under the signature of Corydon.