MYTHOLOGICAL DESCRIPTION OF A BOX

Appropriated to the annual reception of poetical contributions, at the Vicarage of Hayes, Middlesex, when the Rev. Anthony Hinton was Vicar,

BY T. PARK, ESQ.

"Diversa figurarum positio."

WHEN the box of Pandora came down from the Gods
To disquiet poor mortals and set them at odds,
'Twas hewn by the Fates from some health-blasting yew
Which on Acheron's bank or Avernus's grew;
By Vulcan 'twas hing'd with the diræ of Life,
By Bellona emboss'd with the symbols of strife,
While each fiend of Cocytus his malice combin'd
To make this joint present a curse to mankind!

But the box which Apollo now yearly displays,
When he visits his classical villa called HAYES,
As a nostrum for that which descended of yore,
Bright Pæon himself from a laurel-tree bore,
Of the very same genus that Daphne's own hand
Had formerly planted on Peneus' strand;

By the Muses 'twas form'd on their favourite mount,
By the Graces thrice polish'd at Dian's pure fount,
And fill'd with each flowret of Nature and Art
That blooms from the fancy, or springs from the heart:
On its sides are the scions of Genius chas'd,
Round its borders, inlaid, are the tendrils of Taste,
While Wit's lucid gems of the very first drop,
Circumscribe a young figure of Fame on the top.

ON READING SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,

By a Young Lady of Edinburgh,

BY THE REV. HENRY BOYD, A. M.

THAT strain once more! it had no dying fall *,
Tremendous minstrelsy! it shook my frame
As upward thro' the wide Olympian hall,
Thy genius bore me on his wings of flame.

That strain once more !-oh many a year is flown
Since Collins smote the clanging lyre so strong;
When like the shock that runs from zone to zone,
I felt the sacred violence of song!

Our distance far we mortal minstrels keep,
Who round the borders of Parnassus stray,
Alone she climbs the formidable steep,

And eyes

the beam of more than solar day.

At once almost with angels there she views
Old Nature's mighty current ebb and flow,
That now the desolating conflict brews,

Now bids the vernal tints of Eden glow.

With thee aghast, I climb the frozen wave,†

Where the dim pole-star views the sailor's doom, While Zembla's tempests thro' the cordage rave, Till each man stands his own Gorgonean tomb.

* Shakespeare.

+ Spirit of the Storm, an Ode.

With thee I climb the proud Columbian steep,
To see the blackening storm expand its wings,
Which bending on the woods with eagle-sweep
Its sturdy files around the valley flings.

The son of Fingal, in his cloudy cave
Tunes his aërial melody to thine,

And follows thee on Æther's limpid wave,
From the bright pole-star to the burning line.

Reclining on his Marathonian lance,

The tragic father asks who found the shell
That us'd his attic audience to entrance,
Or bid the tumults of the bosom swell.

Even mighty Shakespear marvels to behold
The sudden wonders of thy wizard hand;
There spectres frown, and awful scenes unfold,
In gloomy contrast to his magic band.

But when thy Seraph spreads his starry plume,
His glories brighten, as the song proceeds;
Etherial splendours pierce the gilded gloom,
And the deep vista shows his wondrous deeds.

Young Favourite of the Muse accept the lay,
A primal offering from Ierne's coast,
Where like the lark that hails the rising day,
I try to sing Edina's pride and boast.

* Ode to Freedom.

+Eschylus-See his Chorusses.-He fought at the battle of Marathon. The Seraph, an Ode.

And yet thou art unknown, except to few,
Who, as the Genii round the cradle wait
Of one ordained fair Science to renew,
Or fix the fortunes of his parent state :

So these observe the glorious mark afar,
On which, intent, you fix your kindling eye;
As the young eagle views the solar car,
And longs to follow through the glowing sky.

Is it thy lot a Thespian wreath to wear,

And bid the manes of the dead return? Shall the fallen patriot grace the funeral bier, Or rival minds with fiercest passions burn? Or wilt thou seek the pure Aonian springs, That only to the favoured few are known, And nobly rising from material things,

Aspire to make the moral world thine own?

'Tis thine on steady wing to mount the sky,
And see her glorious dome immensely spread,
O seize the sacred lightnings as they fly,
And strike triumphant Vice and Folly dead,

"Tis thine to claim the Muses noblest right,
O seize the holy harp in Zion strung;
And emulate the solemn bard of Night,
And him that lights primæval glories sung.

RATHFRYLAND, SEPT. 12, 1802.

* Young.

Milton.-See his Hymn to Light.

TO THE

REV. HENRY BOYD, A. M.

On reading his translation of Dante and Original Poems.

HAIL, holy Minstrel of yon haunted shore,
Where heaven-taught bards the harp of Erin strung,
And youthful warriors in their halls of yore,
The mighty prowess of their fathers sung.

Those sons of song, bright beams of other days,
In purer worlds that glow, in light sublime;
Smite Heav'n's bold lyre responsive to thy lays,
Rising extatic from the shades of Time.

And oft when moonlight trembles on the seas,
While Midnight watches on her cloudy tower,
Soft aëreal music floating on the breeze,
Wakes dreams of transport in thy classic bower.

For thee the voice of Arno's* lovely vale

Pours hymns seraphic on the listening night, While Heaven's pure breath in many a charmed gale, Bears the wild minstrelsy of warm delight.

* Dante.