Oft when the noisy bustling hours of day,
And all their soul-distracting cares are fled,
Ah! give to pour the pensive moral lay ;

Or hold sweet converse with th' illustrious dead!

And as, inspir'd with reverential awe,

On works of mouldering sages oft I pore, Assist me, with unweary'd mind to draw,

Transcendent knowledge from their copious store!

Give me, with Shakspeare, Fancy's sweetest child,
To mark the movements of the human heart;
And feel, as list'ning to his wood-notes wild,
Th' emotions soft his matchless scenes impart !

Smit with those charms which Milton's strains display,

Let me, enraptur'd, trace his daring flight; With Newton, in yon wond'rous orbs survey The pow'r, the wisdom, of the God of light:

Nor be the lays forgot of pensive Young;
Beneath thy dewy star, in serious guise,
Oft let me listen to the truths he sung,
Fir'd with like ardour for an heav'nly prize!

In this auspicious hour my soul befriend;

Each virtuous wish to firm resolve mature;

Teach me with life celestial hopes to blend; And shield my heart from every thought impure!

Stem with thy lenient hand fell Sorrow's tide;
And from each galling chain my mind release;
Bid each corroding, anxious thought subside,
And, in soft accents, gently whisper peace!

Whene'er thou visitest this earthly sphere,
These blessings, Ev'ning, to thy suppliant bring:
Then will he still thy modest charms revere,
Nor cease thy praise, in grateful strains to sing!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

ENJOY, Benvolio, still thy woodbine bowers,
Thy shrubb'ry, flower-fring'd walks, and straw-
roof'd cot;

And as, around, its sweets thy garden show'rs,
May ev'ry blessing be thy happy lot!

Erewhile I've lov'd, with curious eye, to feed
On charms that art and nature lavish'd there;
Nay hop'd, perchance, th' elysian scene might lead
To sweet oblivion of each earthly care!

Reft of that peace which erst my bosom knew,
With heedless steps each devious path I trace;
And, dead to all its various beauties, view,
With vacant eye, the once-alluring place.

Oh! if the cup of sorrow were not giv'n,
Man's resignation and his faith to prove,

And wean his soul from transient joys, might heav'n

Far from thy lips the bitter draught remove!

Else thou, like me, perhaps, ere long must mourn Hope's blasted blossoms, life's fair prospects

fled!

Or with thy tears bedew the sacred urn

Of some lov'd friend, soon number'd with the dead!

Ah! then how alter'd shall yon scenes appear,
Tho' justly deem'd the residence of taste!
Content no more shall fix her dwelling there,
But ev'n thy garden seem a dreary waste!

ASPASIA.

PLAC'D in a world where, for unfathom'd ends, By Heav'n's permission, bliss with misery blends; And where a thousand various scenes appear To call from Pity's eye the glistening tear! Say what, amid those scenes, can more impart A gen'rous anguish to the feeling heart, Than to behold the once ingenuous mind A prey to guilt and infamy consign'd; See Virtue's image from the soul effac'd, And Vice's temple on her ruins plac'd! What more wild Passion's lawless force repress, Than on th' o'erwhelming torrent of distress This poison'd fountain yields to contemplate; And trace its evils in Aspasia's fate!

O'er yon neglected form which once could please,
Though now the seat of misery and disease,
Charm'd by the music of her prattling tongue,
A father, mother, once delighted hung:
By turns they fondly gaz'd, by turns carest;
And with one voice their darling daughter blest.
And ever when the beauteous infant smil'd,
A thousand flatt'ring hopes their souls beguil❜d.

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With all the parent fill'd, they joy'd to trace
Her budding virtues in her lovely face.
Beneath their watchful eyes secure she grew;
Excell❜d by none, and equall'd but by few.
For genius, talents, worth, by all approv'd;
Priz'd for her goodness, for her beauty lov'd.
Till of their fost'ring care by death bereft,
In a base world, a friendless orphan left,
(How shall the muse the mournful tale relate,
Or in due language paint her hapless fate!)
Betray'd by love, in an unguarded hour,
She sunk beneath a vile seducer's power!
So fall oftimes, a prey to blights severe,
The fairest blossoms of the opening year
Too soon condemn'd those poignant woes to

prove,

The sure attendants on illicit love,

!

Mock'd and deserted by her perjured swain,
Theme of his laughter and the world's disdain,
Where should she turn? To desperation driv❜n,
She sought not pardon from offended Heav'n;
From vice to vice by slow gradations past,

While each new crime drew vigour from the last;
And, all the bloom of early promise fled,
By prostitution sought her daily bread.

Alas, how fall'n! how chang'd! The modest mien, That faithful index of a soul serene;