By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell,

Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts,

And health, and peace, and contemplation dwell.

There study shall with solitude recline; And friendship pledge me to his fellowswains;

And toil and temperance sedately twine The slender cord that fluttering life sustains:

And fearless poverty shall guard the door;

And taste unspoil'd the frugal table spread;

And industry supply the humble store; And sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed; White-mantled sprite,

innocence,

ethereal

Shall chase far off the goblins of the night;

And Independence o'er the day preside, Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

ODE TO LEVEN WATER. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love,

I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.
Pure stream, in whose transparent

wave

My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white round polish'd pebbles
spread;

While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride,
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war,
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch and groves of
pine,

And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be

seen:

And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolved and hands pre-
pared

The blessings they enjoy to guard!

THE MINGLED PAIN AND PLEASURE ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS EMOTIONS.

[From Pleasures of the Imagination.] BEHOLD the ways Of Heaven's eternal destiny to man, For ever just, benevolent, and wise: That Virtue's awful steps, howe'er pur

sued

By vexing Fortune and intrusive Pain, Should never be divided from her chaste, Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge

Thy tardy thought through all the various round

Of this existence, that thy soft'ning soul At length may learn what energy the

hand

Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide

Of passion swelling with distress and pain,

To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops Of cordial Pleasure? Ask the faithful youth,

Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd

So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds

Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise

Of Care and Envy, sweet Remembrance soothes,

With Virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast,

And turns his tears to rapture, — Ask the crowd,

Which flies impatient from the village walk

To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below

The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast

Some hapless bark; while sacred Pity melts

The gen'ral eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;

While ev'ry mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and, pointing where the waves

Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud,

As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms

For succor, swallow'd by the roaring surge,

As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down. O! deemest thou indeed

No kind endearment here by Nature giv'n

To mutual Terror and Compassion's tears?

No sweetly-swelling softness, which attracts,

O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs

To this their proper action and their end?

Ask thy own heart; when, at the midnight hour,

Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye,

Led by the glimm'ring taper, moves around

The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs

Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame

For Grecian heroes, where the present pow'r

Of heav'n and earth surveys th' immortal page,

E'en as a father blessing, while he reads

The praises of his son; if then thy soul, Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,

Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame:

Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,

When rooted from the base, heroic states Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown

Of curs'd Ambition;

band

when the pious

The big distress? or wouldst thou then exchange

Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot

Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,

And bears aloft his gold-invested front, And says within himself, "I am a king, And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of Woe

Intrude upon mine ear?"-The baleful dregs

Of these late ages, this inglorious draught Of servitude and folly, have not yet, Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world! Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame The native honors of the human soul, Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.

ON TASTE.

[From Pleasures of the Imagination.]

SAY, what is Taste, but the internal pow'rs

Active and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning

sense

Of decent and sublime, with quick dis gust

From things deform'd, or disarrang'd, or gross

In species? This nor gems, nor stores of gold,

Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the sacred bias of the soul.
He, Mighty Parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze, or light of
heav'n,

Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain

Who journeys homeward from a summer-day's

Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold The sunshine gleaming as through amber

clouds

O'er all the western sky! Full soon, I

ween,

His rude expression, and untutor'd airs, Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold

The form of Beauty smiling at his heart, How lovely! how commanding! But though Heav'n

In every breast hath sown these early seeds

Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, Without enliv'ning suns and genial

show'rs,

And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope

The tender plant should rear its blooming head,

Or yield the harvest promis'd in its spring.
Nor yet will ev'ry soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labor; or attend
His will, obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Diffrent minds
Incline to diff'rent objects: one pursues