His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Of the various imitations of these very melodious verses I shall select but two, which, for their pathos and beauty, cannot fail to attract admiration. The first consists of only four lines, and is taken from the Ode for Music, by Gray. Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The second, which is more extended and elaborate, though perhaps, equally pathetic. and harmonious, is from Hayley's Ode, in scribed to Mr. Howard, a composition that breathes the very spirit of philanthropy, and which has the singular felicity of recording a character, whose virtues could not be exagerated, even by the warmest poetic encomium. Sweet is the joy when Science flings Spring-tides of fancy o'er the poet's soul, That waft his flying bark thro' seas above the pole. Sweet the delight, when the gall'd heart Feels Consolation's lenient hand, Bind up the wound from Fortune's dart With Friendship's life-supporting band! And sweeter still, and far above These fainter joys, when purest Love The soul his willing captive keeps! When he in bliss the melting spirit steeps, Who drops delicious tears, and wonders that he weeps. But not the brighest joy, which Arts, Nor those that Love's sweet hours dispense, When, swelling to a fond excess, The grateful praises of reliev'd distress, Re-echoed thro' the heart, the soul of Bounty bless. After such originals, and such imitations, it certainly was unnecessary, and altogether hazardous to risque another copy. As the reader, however, may possess some inclination to see the rejected lines, I shall insert them in this place; they will, no doubt, corroborate the opinion of the professional critics, and may be compared with those which have been substituted in their room. Sweet is the mild moon, chaste and white, And dying on the hollow shore; Nor yet the blue wave foaming light, And dying on the hollow shore. Can, &c. &c. ODE TO LAURA. Dificile est longum subitò deponere amorem ; Dificile est. I. CATULLUS. No, not the ruby's crimson's rays, Wide from his track by tempests driv'n, Can hope, her noblest sons among, The melting tones that flow from Love's delicious tongue. 2. Oh, do not turn those eyes away Yet more I love to hear thee speak, To hear thy gentle accents break, Mild as the mellow strains oft heard at evening meek. 3. And wilt thou, Laura, when from thee When far upon a foreign sea I sail, to seek a foreign shore; Ah, wilt thou then, thus distant, pour |