Let no weak vanity dispense Her vapours o'er my better sense; But let my bosom glow with fire, Let me strike the soothing lyre, Although by all unheard the melodies expire.

TO URBAN.

Lo! where the livid lightning flies
With transient furious force,
A moment's splendour streaks the skies,
Where ruin marks its course:
Then see how mild the font of day
Expands the stream of light;
Whilst living by the genial ray,
All nature smiles delight.

So boisterous riot, on his course
Uncurb'd by reason, flies;
And lightning-like its fatal force,
Soon lightning-like it dies:

Whilst sober Temperance, still the same,
Shall shun the scene of strife;
And, like the sun's enlivening flame,
Shall beam the lamp of life.

Let noise and folly seek the reign
Where senseless riot rules;
Let them enjoy the pleasures vain
Enjoy'd alone by fools.

Urban! those better joys be ours,
Which virtuous science knows,
To pass in milder bliss the hours,
Nor fear the future woes.

So when stern time their frames shall seize,
When sorrows pay for sin;

When every nerve shall feel disease,

And conscience shrink within;

Shall health's best blessings all be ours,
The soul serene at ease,

Whilst science gilds the passing hours,
And every hour shall please.

Even now from solitude they fly,
To drown each thought in noise;
Even now they shun Reflection's eye,
Depriv'd of man's best joys.
So, when Time's unrelenting doom
Shall bring the seasons' course,
The busy monitor shall come
With aggravated force.

Friendship is ours: best friend, who knows,
Each varied hour to employ;

To share the lighted load of woes,
And double every joy;

And science too shall lend her aid,
The friend that never flies,
But shines amid misfortune's shade
As stars in midnight skies.

Each joy domestic bliss can know
Shall deck the future hour;
Or if we taste the cup of woe,
The cup has lost its power;

Thus may we live, till death's keen spear,
Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come;
Then sink, without one guilty fear,
To slumber in the tomb.

THE MISER'S MANSION.

THOU mouldering mansion, whose embattled side Shakes as about to fall at every blast;

Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and pride, But now the monument of grandeur past.

Fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time trac'd walls,
Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state;
Each object to the musing mind recalls
The sad vicissitudes of varying fate.

Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time,
The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts:
Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime,
Where, battening undisturb'd, the foul toad sports,

Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl,
The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat;
And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl,
Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat.

'Twas here Avaro dwelt, who daily told

His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy; Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold, And hid those stores he dreaded to employ.

In vain to him benignant heaven bestow'd
The golden heaps to render thousands blest;
Smooth aged penury's laborious road,

And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast.

For, like the serpent of romance, he lay
Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight;
With ceaseless care he watched his heaps by day,
With causeless fears he agoniz'd by night.

Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil
Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest;
Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil,
With all his riches, was Avaro blest?

Rose he, like you, at morn, devoid of fear,

His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep?
Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near,
As calmly on his couch of down to sleep?

Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul,
What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave?
What boots thy wealth above the world's control,
If riches doom their churlish lord a slave ?

Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls,
Nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth;
The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls,
Nor blazed with hospitable fires the hearth.

On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more,

Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet Nor, when the accustom'd guest draws near the door, Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet.

Sullen and stern Avaro sat alone,

In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall,

Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown,
Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall.

For desolation o'er the fabric dwells,

And time, on restless pinion, hurried by;
Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells,
And through the shatter'd roof descends the sky.

Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye
Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom,
And mark the daw from yonder turret fly,
And muse how man himself creates his doom.

For here, had justice reign'd, had pity known
With genial power to sway Avaro's breast,
These treasur'd heaps which fortune made his own,
By aiding misery might himself have blest.

And charity had oped her golden store,

To work the gracious will of heaven intent,
Fed from her superflux the craving poor,
And paid adversity what heaven had lent.

Then had thy turrets stood in all their state,
Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall,
Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate,
And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall.

Then had the village youth at vernal hour

Hung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate, And blest in gratitude that sovereign power That made the man of mercy good as great.

The traveller then to view thy towers had stood,
Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name,
And call'd on Heaven to give thee every good,
And told abroad thy hospitable fame.

In every joy of life the hours had fled,

Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by, "Till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head, Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die.

And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around
The ample wealth by lavish fortune given,
Thy parted spirit had that justice found

And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven.

TO HYMEN.

GOD of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame
Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart;
Of every woe the cure,

Of every joy the source;

To thee I sing: if haply may the muse

Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts,
Where never beams thy torch

To cheer the sullen scene;

From these dull haunts, where monkish science holds,
In sullen gloom her solitary reign;

And

spurns the reign of love,

And spurns thy genial sway.

God of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye,

Whose soft sweet gaze thrills through the bounding heart,

I

With no unholy joy

I pour the lay to thee.

pour the lay to thee, though haply doom'd

In solitary woe to waste my years;

Though doom'd perchance to die

Unlov'd and unbewail'd.