If the foft hand of winning pleasure leads By living waters, and through flow'ry meads, When all is fmiling, tranquil, and ferene, And vernal beauty paints the flatt'ring scene, Oh! teach me to elude each latent fnare, And whifper to my fliding 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 stray,

Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way,
Still let my fteady foul thy goodness see,

And with ftrong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Refign'd to die, or resolute to live;
Prepar'd to kiss the fceptre 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 lefs the myftic characters I fee

Wrought in each flow'r, infcrib'd on ev'ry tree i
In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze

I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in fhady folitudes I walk,
With thee in bufy crowded cities talk ;
In ev'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 control.
Thus thall I eft, unmov'd by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms,
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myfelf omnipotent in thee.

Then when the laft, the clofing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my fwimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I ftand, and ftretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this tranfitory scene
With decent triumph and a look ferene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.

ODE,

TO CONTENT.

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

Receive my temperate vow :

Not all the ftorms that shake the pole
Can e'er difturb thy halcyon foul,

And smooth unalter'd brow.

O come, in fimplest vest array'd,
With all thy fober cheer difplay'd,
To blefs my longing fight;

Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chafte fubdu'd delight.

No more by varying paffions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;

Where in fome pure and equal fky
Beneath thy foft indulgent eye

The modeft Virtues dwell.

L

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breaft

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 bofom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy fifter meek,
Prefents her mild unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian fage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With fettled fmiles to meet ;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek fubmitted head,
And kifs'd thy fainted feet.

But thou, O nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet doft thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?

The lowlieft children of the ground,
Mofs-rofe and violet bloffom round,
And lily-of-the-vale.

O fay, what foft propitious hour
I beit may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?

When Autumn, friendly to the Mufe,
Shall thy own modeft tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy ftar beneath,
Thy balmy fpirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;

If fuch an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy foothing voice
Low whispering through the fhade.

MRS. C. SMITH.

SONNET.

THE partial Mufe has from my earliest hours

Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And ftill with fportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for my head :

But far, far happier is the lot of those

Who never learn'd her dear delufive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose, Referves the thorn, to fefter in the heart. For ftill fhe bids foft Pity's melting eye

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

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

SONNET,

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT.

SWEET

INGALE.

poet of the wood-a long adieu!

Farewel, foft minstrel of the early year!

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

And pour thy mufic on the " night's dull ear." Whether on fpring thy wand'ring flights await, Or whether filent in our groves you dwell, The penfive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves fo well. With cautious ftep, the love-lawn youth fhall glide Thro' the lone brake that fhades thy moffy neft; And shepherd girls, from eyes profane, fhall hide The gentle bird, who fings of pity beft; For ftill thy voice shall soft affections move, And ftill 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 facred to the fons of fong! Thy banks romantic, hopeless love shall feek, Where o'er the rocks the mantling bind with flaunts;

And forrow's drooping form and faded cheek,

Choose on thy willowed fhore her lonely haunts! Banks! which infpir'd thy Otway's plaintive strain! Wilds! whofe lorn echoes learn'd the deeper tone Of Collins' powerful fhell! yet once again Another poet-Hayley is thine own! Thy claffic ftream anew shall hear a lay, Bright as its waves, and various as its way!