Yet will the lark, in iron cage inthrall'd,
Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun,
As wide his brilliant beam

Illumes the landskip round;

As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heard
The feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn,
And hails the beam of joy,

Of joy to her denied.

Friend to each noblest feeling of the soul,
To thee I hymn, for every joy is thine;
And every virtue comes

To join thy generous train.

Lur'd by the splendour of thy beamy torch,
Beacon of bliss, young love expands his plumes,
And leads his willing slaves

To wear thy flowery bands;

And then he yields the follies of his reign,
Throws down the torch that scorches up the soul,
And lights the purer flame

That glows serene with thee.

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter beam
The fading flame of love,

The fading flame of life.

Parent of every bliss! the busy soul
Of Fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues,
How calm, how clear, thy torch
Illumes the wintry hour;

Will paint the wearied labourer, at that hour
When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,
Returning blithely home

To each domestic joy;

Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal
Prepar'd by fond solicitude to please,

The ruddy children round
That climb the father's knee:

And oft will Fancy rise above the lot
Of honest poverty, oft paint the state
Where happiest man is blest
With mediocrity;

When toil, no longer irksome and constrain'd
By hard necessity, but comes to please,
To vary the still hour

Of tranquil happiness.

Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet!
Soothe sad reality

With visionary bliss ?

Ah! rather gaze where science, hallow'd light
Resplendent shines: ah! rather lead thy son
Through all her mystic paths,
To drink the sacred spring.

Let calm philosophy supply the void,
And fill the vacant heart; lead calmly on
Along the unvaried path,

To age's drear abode;

And teach how dreadful death to happiness,
What thousand horrors wait the last adieu,
When every tie is broke,

And every charm dissolv'd.

Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretch
Who wanes in solitary listlessness,

Nor knows the joys of life,
Nor knows the dread of death.

HOSPITALITY.

"LAY low yon impious trappings on the ground,
Bend, Superstition, bend thy haughty head,
Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:"
Thus from his firm-establish'd throne,

Replete with vengeful fury, Henry said.
High Reformation lifts her iron rod,
But lo! with stern and threatful mien,
Fury and rancour desolate the scene,
Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod.
Ah! hold awhile your angry hands;
Ah! here delay your king's commands,
For Hospitality will feel the wound!
In vain the voice of reason cries,
Whilst uncontroll❜d the regal mandate flies.
Thou, Avalon! in whose polluted womb
The patriot monarch found his narrow tomb;
Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head
With niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread,
Stood the memorial of the pious age?

Where wont the hospitable fire

In cheering volumes to aspire,

And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage.
Low lie thy turrets now,

The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth;
The dome which luxury yrear'd,

Though Hospitality was there rever'd,

Now, from its shatter'd brow,

With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth.

Ye minstrel throng,

In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire,
No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre:
The walls, whose trophied sides along

Once rung the harp's energic sound,

Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground;
No more the bold romantic lore

Shall spread from Thule's distant shore;
No more intrepid Cambria's hills among,
In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song.

Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child!
Where shall we seek thee now ?
Genius! no more thy influence mild
Shall gild affliction's clouded brow;
No more thy cheering smiles impart
One ray of joy to sorrow's heart;
No more within the lordly pile

Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile.

Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays,
Where hangs the row in sullen show
Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days,
The gaudy toil of Turkish loom
Shall decorate the stately room;
Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye,
Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by.

Not so, where o'er the desart waste of sand
Speeds the rude Arab wild his wandering way;
Leads on to rapine his intrepid band,

And claims the wealth of India for his prey;
There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest,
Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand,
The generous Arab gives the tent of rest,
Guards him as the fond mother guards her child,
Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild.

Not so amid those climes where rolls along
The Oronoko deep his mighty flood;

Where rove amid their woods the savage throng,
Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood;
Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snake
That sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake,
Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear;
Patient of hunger, and of pain,

Close in their haunts the chiefs remain,
And lift in secret stand the deadly spear.
Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near,
And proffering forth the friendly hand,

Claim their protection from the warrior band;

The savage Indians bid their anger cease,

Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace.

Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdraws

To fashion's circle, far from nature's laws,

How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast!

Cold prudence comes, relentless foe!

Forbids the pitying tear to flow,

And steals the soul of apathy to rest;

Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne,
And deems of other bosoms by her own.

SONNETS.

TO ARISTE.

I.

ARISTE! Soon to sojourn with the crowd,
In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go;
Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show,
Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud.
I go: but still my soul remains with thee,

Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms,
Still, lovely maid, thy imaged form I see,
And every pulse will vibrate with alarms,
When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale,
When envy at a rival's beauty sighs,
When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail,
And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes,
I turn my wearied soul to her for ease,
Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please.

II.

BE his to court the Muse, whose humble breast
The glow of genius never could inspire;

Who never, by the future song possest,

Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre. Let him invoke the Muses from their grove, Who never felt the inspiring touch of love. If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view, Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise, Where only from the minstrel praise is due, I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays, My Muse, Ariste, would be found in you! And need I court the goddess when I move The warbling lute to sound the soul of love?