If the soft band of winning pleasure leads By living waters, and through flow'ry meads; When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flatt'ring scene, Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart-beware! With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice, If friendless in a vale of tears I ftray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; With equal eye my various lot receive, Relign’d to die, or resolute to live; Prepard to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God.

I read his awful name emblazon'd high With golden letters on the illumin'd sky; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flow'r; inscrib'd on ev'ry tree : In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees; With thee in Mady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; In cv'ry creature own thy forming pow's, In each event thy providence adore. Thy hopes thall animate my drooping foul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear controul. Thus thall I veft, unmou'd by all alarms, Secure within the temple of thive arms, From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors frce, And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye ;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of face
I ftand, and stretch my view to either.ftate;
Teach me to quit this tranfitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene ;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.

ODE,

TO CONTENT. O

Thou, the Nymph with placid eye !
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow :
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er difturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in fimplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing fight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chalte subdu'd delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim teet

To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye
The modeft Virtues dwell.

L

Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast

And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope who points to diftant years,
Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears

A vista to the sky.
There Health, thro' whose calm borom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy fifter meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian fage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet ;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,

And kiss'd thy fainted feet.
But thou, O nymph, retir’d and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale ?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,

And lily-of-the-vale.

O say, what soft propitious hour
I beit may choose to hail thy power,

And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy ftar beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And every storm is laid;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whispering through the shade.

MRS. C. SMITH.

my

SONNET.
THE partial Muse has from my earlief hours

Smild on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for

head : But far, far happier is the lot of those

Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,

Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart. For ftill she bids soft Pity's melting eye

Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove; Points every pang, and deepens every figh

Of mourning friendship, or unhappy love. Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost, If those paint sorrow best-who feel it most!

SONNET, ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT.

INGALE. SWEET

poet of the wood - a long adien! Farewel, soft minstrel of the early year!

?

Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt fing anew,

And pour thy music on the “ night's dull ear." Whether on spring thy wand'ring flights await,

Or whether filent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,

And ftill protect the song the loves so well. With cautious step, the love-lawn youth hall glide

Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls, from eyes profane, shall hide

The gentle bird, who sings of pity beft; For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to forrow, and to love !

SONNET,

TO THE RIVER ARUN.
Be the proud Thames, of trade the busy mart;

Arun! to thee will other praise belong;
Dear to the lover's and the mourner's heart,

And ever sacred to the fons of fong!
Thy banks romantic, hopeless love shall seek,

Whereo'er the rocks the mantling bindwith flaunts ; And sorrow's drooping form and faded cheek,

Choose on thy willowed shore her lonely haunts ! Banks! which inspir'd thy Otway's plaintive strain !

Wilds! whose lorn echoes learn'd the deeper tone Of Collins' powerful shell! yet once again

Another poet-Hayley is thine own! Thy classic stream anew shall hear a lay, Bright as its waves, and various as its way!