ACADEMICAL ELEGY. As Physic's sons, when art's weak efforts fail, So did my sire his son to college send, Big with the lordly hopes of future fame, Most sagely bade him to his book attend, And boldly emulate each honour'd name. He little knew, poor soul! the student's toil, He never saw, alack! good honest man, But ah! his son, by trial sad hath found, And thorns which poison ev'n the muses' grove. Ev'n now, sad wight! in college closely pent, His sinking soul ideal fancy shocks, And paints the tempest of his future years, When, like a lion, in the horrid box, His visage grim the stern opponent rears. Tempestuous dreams disturb his broken rest, Tremendous Waring opes his ghastly maw, And, like the night-mare on his troubled breast, O'erwhelms him with his mathematic paw. Rest, heaving bosom! pause, thou startling tear! Now sleep and silence reign o'er half the globe, Where is thy courage, god-like Sampson, where? And where thy patience, oh! undaunted Job? Mr. Langhorne. THE MARINER. A SONNET. TH HE sea-beat mariner, whose watchful eye Full many a boist'rous night hath wak'd to weep, When the keen blast descending from the sky, Snatch'd his warm tear-drop from the rav'nous deep. Drench'd by the chilling rain, his dreary hour With lightning's swiftness he ascends the mast, His darling mistress--and his native shore: THE INTERCESSION TO THE FAIREST OF WOOD-NYMPHS. No o more, soft deceiver! with cruelty sweet, Of mock adoration thy moments employ, Spare, spare thy sad lover-a truce to deceit― Nor say that his thought is the source of thy joy. A Traitress I know, tho' a charmer thou art, For all thy endearments are meant to mislead; Thy beauties, resistless, must seize on the heart, But why should thy merriment doom it to bleed? grove; Leave, leave such designs, nor exultingly go Tho' weak be the wretch who can languish in vain, And anguish becomes the sole bliss of his mind. What tho' E adore thee with tenderest care, Enough-that thy wisdom his passion despise; That it turns in disgust from the throbs of despair, And contemn the sad drops that descend from his eyes. O since then by truth or by pity subdu'd, A female of spirit, thou scornest to yield; Let mercy, at least, in thy triumph be view'd, Nor attack the unarm'd with a sword and a SHIELD. But come, rosy Nymph! from the moonshine retire, A bowl of rich nectar shall brighten the fire, See my tygers are ready, my car is prepar'd, Bacchus. RETIREMENT. WRITTEN IN AMERICA, BY A NATIVE BARD. A HERMIT'S house, beside a stream, Whatever it to you may seem, Than if I were a monarch crown'd. A cottage I would call my own, Would more substantial joys afford, More real bliss impart, Than all the wealth that misers hoard, Than vanquish'd worlds, or worlds restor❜d, Vain, foolish man! how vast thy pride; To triumph-not to die. |