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Who first on mountains wild,
Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!
Thou, who, with hermit heart,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and training pall;
In Attic robe array'd,
O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call!
By all the honey'd store
On Hybla's thymy shore;
By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear;
By her* whose love-lorn woe,
In evening musings slow,
Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep,
In warbled wanderings, round thy green retreat;
When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt allured thy future feet.
O sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth,
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
While Rome could none esteem
But virtue's patriot theme,
* The nightingale, for which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness.
You loved her hills, and led her laureat band:
To one distinguish'd throne;
And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
No more, in hall or bower,
The passions own thy power;
Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
Though taste, though genius bless
To some divine excess,
Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
May court, may charm our eye;
Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty task;
I only seek to find thy temperate vale ;
THE MANSION OF REST.
BY THE RT. HON. CHARLES JAMES FOX.
I TALK'D to my flattering heart,
And chid its wild wandering ways;
I charged it from folly to part,
The meteors which fancy had dress'd;
A charmer was listening the while,
"And I'll show you the place and the way :" I follow'd the witch to her home,
And vow'd to be always her guest: Never more," I exclaim'd, "will I roam "In search of the Mansion of Rest."
But the sweetest of moments will fly,
Not long was my fancy beguiled; For too soon I confess'd, with a sigh,
That the syren deceived while she smiled. Deep, deep, did she stab the repose
Of my trusting and unwary breast, And the door of each avenue close,
That led to the Mansion of Rest.
Then Friendship enticed me to stray
Through the long magic wilds of Romance; But I found that she meant to betray,
And shrunk from the sorcerer's glance.
That the soul that reclined on her breast,
Pleasure's path I determined to try,
Conviction flash'd light from her eye,"
With nettles and wild flowers dress'd,
She spoke and half vanish'd in air,
For she saw mild Religion appear With a smile, that would banish despair,
And dry up the penitent tear.
Doubts and fears from my bosom were driven,
She show'd the true Mansion of Rest.
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
The wretched owner sees, afar,
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime,
The rural pipe and merry lay
Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn,
The pious mother, doom'd to death,