I meet Myrtillo mounting high,
I know his candid soul afar;
Here Dorylus and Thyrsis fly,
Each like a rising star,

Charin I saw, and Fidea there,

I saw them help each other's flight,
And bless them as they go.

They soar beyond my labouring sight,
And leave their loads of mortal care,
But not their love, below.

On heaven, their home, they fix their eyes,
The temple of their God:

With morning incense up they rise
Sublime, and through the lower skies
Spread the perfumes abroad.

Across the road a seraph flew,
"Mark (said he) that happy pair,
"Marriage helps devotion there:
"When kindred minds their God pursue,

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They break with double vigour through

"The dull incumbent air."

Charm'd with the pleasure and surprise,

My soul adores and sings,

"Bless'd be the power that springs their flight, 'That streaks their path with heavenly light,

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"That turns their love to sacrifice,

"And joins their zeal for wings."

TO MESSRS. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.

FLEETWOODS, young generous pair,
Despise the joys that fools pursue;
Bubbles are light and brittle too,
Born of the water and the air.

Tried by a standard, bold and just,
Honour and gold, and paint and dust;
How vile the last is, and as vain the first!

Things that the crowd call great and brave,
With me how low their value 's brought!
Titles and names, and life and breath,
Slaves to the wind, and born for death;
The soul's the only thing we have
Worth an important thought.

The soul! 'tis of the immortal kind,
Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind,

Outlives the mouldering corpse, and leaves the globe behind.

In limbs of clay though she appears,

Array'd in rosy skin, and deck'd with ears and

eyes,

The flesh is but the soul's disguise,

There's nothing in her frame 'kin to the dress she

wears.

From all the laws of matter free,

From all we feel, and all we see,

She stands eternally distinct, and must forever be.

Rise then, my thoughts, on high,
Soar beyond all that's made to die;
Lo! on an awful throne

Sits the Creator and the Judge of souls,
Whirling the planets round the poles,

Winds off our threads of life, and brings our periods on.

Swift the approach, and solemn is the day,
When this immortal mind,

Stripp'd of the body's coarse array,
To endless pain, or endless joy,

Must be at once consign'd.

Think of the sands run down to waste,
We possess none of all the past,
None but the present is our own;
Grace is not plac'd within our power,
'Tis but one short, one shining hour,
Bright and declining as a setting sun,
See the white minutes, wing'd with haste;
The now that flies may be the last;
Seize the salvation e'er 'tis past,

Nor mourn the blessing gone:
A thought's delay is ruin here,
A closing eye, a gasping breath,
Shuts up the golden scene in death,
And drowns you in despair.

TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, ESQ.

CASIMIR. LIB. II. OD. 2, IMITATED.

"Quæ tegit canas modo Bruma valles," &c.

MARK how it snows! how fast the valley fills! And the sweet groves the hoary garment wear; Yet the warm sunbeams, bounding from the hills, Shall melt the veil away, and the young green

appear.

But when old age has on your temples shed
Her silver-frost, there's no returning sun;
Swift flies our autumn, swift our summer's fled,
When youth, and love, and spring, and golden
joys are gone.

Then cold, and winter, and your aged snow,
Stick fast upon you; not the rich array,
Not the green garland, nor the rosy bough
Shall cancel or conceal the melancholy gray.

The chase of pleasure is not worth the pains,
While the bright sands of health run wasting down;
And honour calls you from the softer scenes,
To sell the gaudy hour for ages of renown.

'Tis but one youth, and short, that mortals have,
And one old age dissolves our feeble frame;
But there's a heavenly art to elude the grave,
And with the hero-race immortal kindred claim.

The man that has his country's sacred tears
Bedewing his cold hearse, has liv'd his day:
Thus, Blackbourn, we should leave our names our
heirs ;

Old time and waning moons sweep all the rest

away.

TRUE MONARCHY.

THE rising year beheld the imperious Gaul Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns Crouch'd to the victor: but a steady soul Stands firm on its own base, and reigns as wide, As absolute; and sways ten thousand slaves, Lusts and wild fancies, with a sovereign hand.

We are a little kingdom; but the man That chains his rebel will to reason's throne, Forms it a large one, whilst his royal mind Makes heaven its council, from the rolls above Draws his own statutes, and with joy obeys.