I' faith, my Friend, so well am I appointed,

Cook, Cellar, Kitchen, Parlour-all my own! My Brother Bards will think me your anointed: A vain Usurper of King Philip's Throne.

Yet is your house less spacious than your heart;
And if you'll give me a warm corner there,
With your whole mansion freely will I part,
And quit my envied throne for one more fair.

ADDRESS TO THE LYRE.

WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF VAUCLUse.

Yes, friendly Bow'r, that dost my anguish hide
In the soft Vale where Petrarch us'd to stray,
Wailing the Fair the cruel Fates denied,

Midst haunts ne'er gladden'd by the sunny ray;

To thy dark Glooms like him do I repair,
Breathing to thee my deep embosom'd sigh;
To thee and to this Harp, and yonder Air
That nightly hear my wish to sleep and die!

Come then, grief-subduing string,
All thy world of Magic bring,
To lull the sense of agonizing pain:
Try, ye chords, such lenient lays
As when twilight Zephyr plays
A soft and sweet Eolian strain.
N 2

Like

Like that heav'n-descended Breeze,

Rising, falling, by degrees;

Now like blissful Lovers sighing,

Now like hopeless Lovers dying,

Vary thus th' enchanting Lay,
And steal-O steal me from myself away.

LINES

WRITTEN AT A FRIEND'S VILLA AFTER A

LONG ABSENCE.

SWEET Scenes! since last thy charms I view'd,
Thy Winter's gone, thy Sping renew'd,
And ev'ry Shrub and ev'ry Flower
Confess'd the ever-changeful Power;
Or to the stormy Winds a prey,
Or Autumn's bright but deep decay.

Yet One Flow'ret still I find,
Beyond the reach of wave or wind!
And though, full oft, that flow'ret fades,
Or in dark Misfortune's shades;

Or, sad Willow! like to Thee

Weeping plant of Sympathy,

That fragrant Flow'ret, still sublime,
Survives the wreck of Chance or Time!

And though oft, alas! prevail Sorrow's shocks, and Envy's gale,

Here

Here the plant, of heav'nly birth,

Its power asserts o'er feeble Earth :-
Immortal FRIENDSHIP can impart

The Balm that soothes and glads the heart;
That's the flower whose sweets afar

Scatter Perfume through the Air,

The GILEAD that, which through all Seasons glows,
Nor scorch'd by Summer's Suns, nor chill'd by Winter

Snows.

SONGS.

THE CAPTIVE.

THE Bird within his cage, 'tis true,
May sing as on his native tree;
But he forgets, or never knew,
The Sweets of lovely Liberty.

Yet Man, alas! attempts in vain
With songs his prison hours to cheer;

Still, still he feels the galling chain,`
And drops upon his wounds-a tear.

THE

THE WEAVERS.

WHETHER clear or entangled the Threads of Life run, By the Fates,-rare old Weavers!-those Threads were all spun;

The Work is then past into Dame Nature's Loom,
And woven to suit both the Cradle and Tomb.

Hence Destiny's Doublet for Mortals is made

By these same rare old Weavers, the first of our Trade;
And whether entangled or clear the Threads run,
We must dress in the Jacket their Worships have spun.

'Tis true that the Jerkins, though done in one frame, Are plaguy uneven, and seldom the same;

'Tis here a rich tissue from ankle to throat,

And there patch'd and piec'd like a Harlequin's coat:

Here thinner than cobweb, there standing in gold;
Here tears in a day, and there never looks old:
With some it wears smoothly, with others more rough;
These find it of silk, and those feel it is stuff.

One swears 'tis too coarse, and another too fine;
But troth, Brother Weaver, 't is vain to repine:
For, whether entangled or clear the Threads run,
We must dress in the Jacket their Worships have spun.

LIFE.

Or what have poor mortals, alack! to be proud,

Whose lives are made up thus of Sunshine and Cloud?

Clearing and lowering,

Shining and showering;

Dark Shadows, bright Bubbles!

Short Pleasures, lọng Troubles;

Much rain, and much wind, and a little fair weather,
And all the odd elements jumbled together.

Take Life as it is then, its joy and its sorrow,
Though to-day's overcast it may clear up to-morrow;
And while the storm pours,

Or hurricane roars;

Lightnings flashing,

Thunders crashing;

Though on straw lies my head,

And yours on down-bed,

If snug we both lie,

Till the Tempest goes by,

Though you're in your palace, and I'm in my cot,
We both may be very well pleas'd with our lot.

THE