I hear it still-' Depart, (it cries ;)
No tribute bear to shades unblest:
Know, here a bloody Druid lies,

Who was not nurs'd at Nature's breast.

Associate he with demons dire,

O'er human victims held the knife, And pleas'd to see the babe expire, Smil'd grimly o'er its quivering life.

'Behold his crimson-streaming hand
Erect; his dark, fix'd, murderous eye;'
In the dim cave I saw him stand;
And my heart died-I felt it die.

I see him still-Dost thou not see

The haggard eye-ball's hollow glare? And gleams of wild ferocity

Dart through the sable shade of hair;

What meagre form behind him moves,
With eye that rues the' invading day;
And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves
The mind to pale remorse a prey?

What wretched-Hark-the voice replies,

'Boy, bear these idle honours hence!

For, here a guilty hermit lies,

Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense.

'Though Nature lent him powers to aid
The moral cause, the mutual weal;
Those powers he sunk in this dim shade,
The desperate suicide of zeal.

6

Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts, Whose cell's the sepulchre of time; Though many a holy hymn he chaunts, His life is one continued crime.

And bear them hence, the plant, the flower;
No symbols those of systems vain!

They have the duties of their hour;
Some bird, some insect to sustain.'

THE HAPPY VILLAGER.

VIRTUE dwells in Arden's vale;
There her hallow'd temples rise;
There her incense greets the skies,
Grateful as the morning-gale;
There, with humble Peace, and her
Lives the happy Villager.

There, the golden smiles of morn
Brighter every field adorn ;
There the sun's declining ray
Fairer paints the parting day:
There the woodlark louder sings,
Zephyr moves on softer wings,
Groves in greener honours rise,
Purer azure spreads the skies;
There the fountains clearer flow,
Flowers in brighter beauty blow;
For, with Peace and Virtue, there
Lives the happy Villager.

Distant still from Arden's vale
Are the woes the bad bewail;
Distant fell Remorse, and Pain,
And Frenzy smiling o'er her chain!
Grief's quick pang, Despair's dead groan.

Are in Arden's vale unknown :

For with Peace and Virtue, there
Lives the happy Villager.

In his hospitable cell,

Love, and Truth, and Freedom dwell;

And, with aspect mild and free,

The graceful nymph, Simplicity.

Hail, ye liberal graces, hail!
Natives all of Arden's vale:
For, with Peace and Virtue, there
Lives the happy Villager.

ON MY MOTHER.

1759.

Ан, scenes belov'd! ah, conscious shades,
That wave these parent-vales along!
Ye bowers where Fancy met the tuneful maids,
Ye mountains vocal with my doric song,
Teach your wild echoes to complain

In sighs of solemn woe, in broken sounds of pain.

For her I mourn,

Now the cold tenant of the thoughtless urn—
For her bewail these strains of woe,

For her these filial sorrows flow,
Source of my life, that led my tender years,
With all a parent's pious fears,

That nurs'd my infant thought, and taught my mind to grow.

Careful, she mark'd each dangerous way,
Where Youth's unwary footsteps stray:
She taught the struggling passions to subside;
Where sacred truth, and reason guide,
In virtue's glorious path to seek the realms of day.

Lamented goodness! yet I see
The fond affections melting in her eye:
She bends its tearful orb on me,
And heaves the tender sigh:
As thoughtful, she the toils surveys,
That crowd in life's perplexing maze;

And for her children feels again

All, all that love can fear, and all that fear can feign.

O best of parents! let me pour

My sorrows o'er thy silent bed;
There early strew the vernal flower,
The parting tear at evening shed-

Alas! are these the only meed

Of each kind thought, each virtuous deed, These fruitless offerings that embalm the dead?

Then, fairy-featur'd Hope, forbear-
No more thy fond illusions spread;
Thy shadowy scenes dissolv'd in air,
Thy visionary prospects fled;

With her they fled, at whose lamented shrine.
Love, gratitude, and duty mingled tears,
Condemn'd each filial office to resign,

Nor hopeful more to soothe her long-declining years.

ASK what is human life-the sage replies,
With disappointment lowering in his eyes,
A painful passage o'er a restless flood,
A vain pursuit of fugitive false good,
A scene of fancied bliss and heartfelt care,
Closing at last in darkness and despair;
The poor, inured to drudgery and distress,
Act without aim, think little, and feel less,
And no where, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes,
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means.