Obrazy na stronie

But such a tree ! 'twas shaven deal,

The tree they call a mast ; And had a hollow with a wheel,

Through which the tackle pass'd.

Within that cavity aloft

Their roofless home they fixt ; Form'd with materials neat and soft,

Bents, wool, and feathers mixt.

Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor,

With russet specks bedight :The vessel weighs-forsakes the shore,

And lessens to the sight.

The mother bird is gone to sea,

As she had chang'd her kind ; But goes the mate? Far wiser he

Is doubtless left behind.

No!-Soon as from ashore he saw

The winged mansion move ;
He flew to reach it, by a law

Of never-failing love !
Then perching at his consort's side,

Was briskly borne along ;
The billows and the blasts defied,

And cheer'd her with a gong.

The seaman, with sincere delight,

His feather'd shipmate eyes, Scarce less exulting in the sight,

Than when he tows a prize.

for seamen much believe in signs,

And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,

And may his hopes be true!

Hail! honour'd land ! a desert, where

Not even birds can hide ; Yet parent of this loving pair,

Whom nothing could divide.

And ye, who rather than resign

Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine,

In company with man.

To whose lean country, much disdain

We English often show; Yet from a richer, nothing gain

But wantonness and wo.

Be it your fortune, year by year,

The same resource to prove ; And may ye, sometimes landing here,

Instruct us how to love !




“I COULD be well content, allow'd the use Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd

From worn-out follies, now acknowledg'd such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!"

Thus, while grey evening lull’d the wind, and callid
Fresii odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk I mus'd,
And held accustom'd conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied.
“ Could'st thou in truth! and art thou taught at

This wisdom, ard but this from all the past ?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsaf'd to err
With less excuse, and haply, worse effect ?**

I heard, and acquiesc'd ; then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass'd, and next consider'd. What is Man?

Knows he his origin can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date ?
Slept he in Adam ? and in those from him
Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destin'd moment to be born?
Or was he not till fashion'd in the womb ?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen' much hare

toil'd T' unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.

It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplor'd he leaves
Truths useful, and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solv'd, and useless if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels ; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment ; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.

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Which the Author heard sing. on New-Year's

day, 1792.
WHENCE is it, that amaz'd I hear

From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,

The melody of May.
And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shewn,
Am I selected from the crowd,

To witness it alone!


Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me

For that I also long
Have practis'd in the groves like thee,

Though not like thee in song ?

Or sing'st thou rather under force

Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course

Of happier days at hand ?
Thrice welcome, then ! for many a long

And joyless year have I,
As thou to day, put forth my song

Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies, can harm,

Who only need'st to sing,
To make e'en January, charm,

And every season spring.


On his arrival at Cambridge wet, when no rain

had fallen there. IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found, While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd With heavenly gifts, to heathens not allow'd; In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, Thy locks were wet, when other locks were dry. Heaven grant us half the omen ! may we see Not drought on others, but much dew on thee !

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