THE DOVES.

Reas'ning at ev'ry step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,
While meaner things, whom instinct leads,
Are rarely known to stray.

One silent eve I wander'd late,
And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus address'd her mate,
And sooth'd the list'ning dove :

Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time shall disengage,
Those blessings of our early youth
Shall cheer our latest age:

While innocence without disguise,
And constancy sincere,

Shall fill the circles of those eyes,
And mine can read them there;

Those ills, that wait on all below,
Shall ne'er be felt by me,
Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shar'd with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hov'ring near,
I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear.

"Tis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side,
Resolv'd a union form'd for life
Death never shall divide.

But oh! if fickle and unchaste,
(Forgive a transient thought)
Thou could become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot,

No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak

;

Denied th'endearments of thine eye,

This widow'd heart would break.

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind;
And I recorded what I heard,
A lesson for mankind.

A FABLE.

A raven, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd,
And, on her wickerwork high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted,
(A fault philosophers might blame
If quite exempted from the same,)
Enjoy'd at ease the genial day;
'Twas April, as the bumpkins say,
The legislature call'd it May.
But suddenly a wind as high,
As ever swept a winter sky,

Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And fill'd her with a thousand fears,

Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
And spread her golden hopes below.
But just at eve the blowing weather

And all her fears were hush'd together :

And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph,

'Tis over, and the brood is safe;

(For ravens, though as birds of omen They teach both conj'rers and old women, To tell us what is to befall,

Can't prophesy themselves at all.)

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge,

Who long had mark'd her airy lodge

And destin'd all the treasure there

A gift to his expecting fair,

Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray,
And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone secures

In ev'ry change both mine and yours:
Safety consists not in escape
From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man, that's strangled by a hair.

Fate steals along with silent tread,
Found oft'nest in what least we dread
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

A COMPARISON.

The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace, with which they steal away,

No wealth can bribe, nor pray'rs persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when past,

And a wide ocean swallows both at last.

Though each resemble each in ev'ry part,

A diff'rence strikes at length the musing heart: Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd} But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected, leaves a weary waste behind.

ANOTHER.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid

Silent and chaste she steals along,

Far from the world's gay busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destin'd course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes,
Pure-bosom'd as that wat'ry glass,
And heav'n reflected in her face.

THE POETS NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

To MRS. (now LADY) THROCKMORTON.

Maria! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.

To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favor then, not yet possess’d,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire;

None here is happy but in part:
Full bliss is bliss divine:

There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,
And doubtless one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day,
Which Fate shall brightly gild,
('Tis blameless, be it what it may,)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

Patron of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning:

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,

Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations,

0

Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, hast thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapor now,

Impell'd through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,

To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,
So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left may shine
With equal grace below.

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.

A FABLE.

I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau,*

If birds confabulate or no ;

'Tis clear, that they were always able

To hold discourse, at least in fable;

And e'en the child, who knows no better
Than to interpret by the letter,

A story of a cock and bull,

Must have a most uncommon skull.

It chanc'd then, on a winter's day,
But warm, and bright, and calm as May,
The birds, conceiving a design

To forestal sweet St. Valentine,

* It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?