CHILDREN LISTENING TO A LARK,
SEE the lark prunes his active wings,
Rises to heaven and soars and sings.
His morning hymns, his midday lays,
Are one continued song of praise.
He speaks his Maker all he can,
And shames the silent tongue of man,
When the declining orb of light
Reminds him of approaching night,
His warbling vespers swell his breast,
And as he sings he sinks to rest.
Shall birds instructive lessons teach,
And we be deaf to what they preach?
No; ye dear nestlings of my heart!
Go, act the wiser songster's part:
Spurn your warm couch at early dawn,
And with your God begin the morn.
To Him your grateful tribute pay
Through every period of the day:
To Him your evening songs direct;
His
eye shall watch, his arm protect.
Though darkness reigns, He's with you still,
Then sleep, my babes, and fear no ill.
TO A CHILD OF FIVE YEARS OLD.
FAIREST flower, all flowers excelling,
Which in Milton's page we see;
Flowers of Eve's embower'd dwelling'
fair one, types of thee.
Mark, my Polly, how the roses
Emulate thy damask cheek;
How the bud its sweets discloses-
Buds thy opening bloom bespeak.
Lilies are by plain direction
Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flowers and beauty
Blossom, fade, and die away;
Then pursue good sense and duty,
Evergreens! which ne'er decay.
ON LORD COBHAM'S GARDEN.
IT puzzles much the sages' brains,
Where Eden stood of yore;
Some place it in Arabia's plains,
Some say it is no more.
But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;
For he hath proved, beyond dispute,
That Paradise is Stow.
1 Alluding to Milton's description of Eve's bower.
TO-MORROW, didst thou say!
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow!
A sharper 'tis, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft, my friend,-arrest the present moments;
For be assured, they all are errant tell tales;
And though their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly:
Because, though station'd on the' important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved.
And know, for that thou slumber'dst on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd justice, who shall tell thy audit?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
"Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more pre-
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain!— Oh! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.
SOME HASTY RHYMES ON SLEEP.
MYSTERIOUS deity, impart
From whence thou comest, and what thou art.
I feel thy power, thy reign I bless,
But what I feel, I can't express.
Thou bind'st my limbs, but canst not restrain
The busy workings of the brain.
All nations of the air and land
Ask the soft blessing at thy hand.
The reptiles of the frozen zone
Are close attendants on thy throne;
Where painted basilisks infold
Their azure scales in rolls of gold.
The slave, that's destined to the oar,
In one kind vision swims to shore;
The lover meets the willing fair,
And fondly grasps impassive air.
Last night the happy miser told
Twice twenty thousand pounds in gold.
The purple tenant of the crown Implores thy aid on beds of down: While Lubin and his healthy bride Obtain what monarchs are denied.
The garter'd statesman thou wouldst own, But rebel conscience spurns thy throne; Braves all the poppies of the fields, And the famed gum' that Turkey yields. While the good man, oppress'd with pain, Shall court thy smiles, nor sue in vain : Propitious thou'lt his prayer attend, And prove his guardian and his friend. Thy faithful hands shall make his bed, And thy soft arm support his head.
TELL me, my Cælia, why so coy;
Of men so much afraid;
Cælia, 'tis better far to die
A mother than a maid.
The rose, when past its damask hue,
Is always out of favour;
And when the plum hath lost its blue,
Its loses too its flavour.
To vernal flowers the rolling years
Returning beauty bring;
But faded once, thou 'lt bloom no more,
Nor know a second spring.
1 Or, rather, inspissated juice, opium
|