Descending from this lofty hill,

At first, thou form'st a trickling rill,

Bright as the morning dew;

How like

my childhood's weak estate!

Untaught to fear the frowns of fate→→
Nor care nor guilt I knew.

Soon other infant streamlets join

Their tributary stores with thine,

Then fierce thou pour'st along

So, man each day new vigour gains,

Till life's meredian he attains

"With passions wild and strong.”

The stream which from yon bog descends,

Its dark, discolour'd water blends

With thy translucent waves:

So vice, with sly insidious art,

Her venom pours into the heart,

And all the mind depraves

Now, rolling o'er thy pebbly bed,

Thou paint'st the youth by folly led

Wild pleasure's giddy round:

Thy hollow murmurs represent

The reeling drunkard's merriment,

When reason's voice is drown'd

Now, tumbling down the rocky steep,

Headlong into the cavern deep,

That boiling foams below:

Like man, by adverse fortune crost,

Each pleasing, hopeful, prospect lost,

He sinks, o'erwhelm'd in woe.

But soon the strife is o'er....again

Thou glid'st along the level plain,

Where no rude rocks oppose:

So, when the storm of grief is past,
Calm resignation comes at last,

And lulls asleep our wees.

Where, in the marsh thou spread'st around,

A pool, with reeds and sedges crown'd,. Whence noisome vapours rise,

Thou pictur'st life's dull vapid hour,

When all enjoyments lose their pow'r,

To charm our ears or eyes.

At last, thou meet'st old-ocean's wave

So, man descends into the grave—

Yet both shall rise again:

For, from its earthly dregs set free,
Thy purer part exhaled shall be,

And yet refresh the plain.

So, man (or hope misleads my heart)

Shall leave behind his mortal part

And re-ascend the skies:

Freed from the body's cumbrous load,

On high the soul, shall dwell with God,

And taste celestial joys.

Then, let not man, tho' cares molest,

Repine at heav'n's most high behest,
Or heave the impious sigh:

For as the sea doth ebb and flow,

Iis life partakes of joy and woe➡

Yet hope still points on high.

ODE TO SLEEP.

"On this my pensive pillow, gentle SLEEP!
"Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest
"Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,
"And place thy crown of poppies on my breast."

HAIL gentle power! refreshing sleep,

The wounded spirit's healing balm ;

Misfortune's children, " born to weep,"

In thee enjoy a transient calm.

WARTON

The tear-swoln eye-the woe-fraught breast-
The brain convuls'd by fell despair,
Have all by thee been lull'd to rest-

By thee reliev'd from grief and care

Thou art the weary peasant's friend,

His languid powers thou dost renew, "Tis thine o'er his hard couch to bend, Somnific gifts at eve to strew.

The care-worn pilgrim owns thy sway, Who has on earth no friend but theeA homeless wand'rer doom'd to stray,

Till death's long slumber sets him free.

Nor do the poor alone confess,

The powerful magic of thy charms,

The sons of wealth thou deign'st to bless

And princes court thee to their arms.

The legislator seeks repose,

On whom a nation's weal depends; The learn'd divine thy blessing knows

And at thy shrine the hero bends.