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Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care opprest;
• And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,
• The sorrows of thy breast ? From better habitations spurned ?
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?
Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
And what is friendship, but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep,
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex,' he said: But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties risé,
Swift mantling to the view,
Like colors o'er the morning skies;
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid, in all her charms !
And," Ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,' she cried; Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heav'n and you reside: But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.
To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove; Among the rest, young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
The blossoms opening to the day,
The dews of heav'n refin'd,
Could naught of purity display,
To emulate his mind:
The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but woe to me,
Their constancy was mine! For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumphed in his pain:
Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride,
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died !
But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die:
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will l.'
Forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast.
The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide,
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee!
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life,-my all that's mine?
No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too.'
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE CONQUEST OF CANAAN.
Written by a youth of nineteen.
Hail, rising genius, whose celestial fire
Warms the glad soul to tune the sacred lyre ;
Whose splendid lays in epic song adorn
A theme which infidels and skeptics scorn;
Sing the bold feats of Joshua's valiant hand,
Who rears his standard in Canaan's land;
Before whose arm, the numerous squadrons slain,
Heap the broad field and drench the embattled plain;
The vanquish'd nations tremble at his frown,
And laurel'd conquests all his labors crown.
Shall Homer's genius dare a matchless flight,
And soar triumphant to the realms of light?
Shall Virgil's sweetness every grace combine,
And lose the enraptured soul in charis divine?
Shall milder Tasso rear the magic throne,
Nor these bright ages blush his power to own?
Shall god-like Milton, whose sublimer lays
Have shar'd at length the debt of envied praise,
In sacred verse alone deserve a name,
Without one rival to eclipse his fame?
Your heavenly song the palm of praise demands,
And wafts your rising fame lo distant lands.
Those views extensive, that exalted mind;
That manly firmness, and that zeal refin'd;
That sacred fire, which, like the electric blaze,
Darts thro' each state and beams enlivening rays,
Glow in your breast; you reach a fostering hand,
To nourish science and adorn the land.
Here see the man whose philosophic soul
Mounts on the day and flies from pole to pole;
Through vast expanse on daring pinions soar,
Eye nature's system and its parts explore;
Or see him dare a guilty world engage,
And curb the excursions of a vicious age;
Rouse slumbering man from folly's vile embrace,
Or light a smile in sorrow's clouded face;
Diffuse the balmy dew of sacred truth,
Support old age and guide the devious youth.
Wrap't into transport at the heavenly charms
Of music's sweetness, and her soft alarms;
See the gay throng in harmony conspire,
Touch the soft notes and wanton on the lyre;
In sweetest concert every charm combine,
Rouse the dull soul, and flights of rage confine.
Soon o'er the land these glorious arts shall reign,
And blest Yalensia lead the splendid train.
In future years unnumber'd bards shall rise,
Catch the bold flame and tower above the skies;
Their brigthning splendor gild the epic page,
And unborn Dwights adorn the Augustan age. N. W.
THE HOUSE OF SLOTH.-FROM GREENFIELD HILL."
BY DR. DWIGHT.
Beside yon lonely tree, whose branches bare
Rise white, and murrnur to the passing air,
There, where the twiping briers the yard inclose,
The house of sloth stands hushed in long repose.
In a late round of solitary care,
My feet instinct to rove, they knew not where,
I thither came. With yellow blossoms gay,
The tall, rank weeds begirt the tangled way:
Curious to see, I found a path between,
And climbed the broken stile, and viewed the scene,
O'er an old well, the curb, half-fallen, spread,
Whose boards, end-loose, a mournful creaking made ;
Poised on a leaning post, and ill-sustained,
In ruin sad, a moldering sweep remained;
Useless, the crooked pole still dangling hung,
And, tied with thrums, a broken bucket swung:
A half-made wall around the garden lay,
Mended in gaps, with brushwood in decay.
No culture through the woven briers was seen,
Save a few sickly plants of faded green:
The starved patatoe hung its blasted seeds,
And fennel struggled to o'ertop the weeds.
There gazed a ragged sheep, with wild surprise,
And two lean geese turned up their slanting eyes.
The cottage gap'd with many a dismal yawn,
Where, rent to burn, the covering boards were gone;
Or by one nail, where others endwise hung,
The sky looked through, and winds portentous rung-
In waves the yielding roof appeared to run,
And half the chimney-top was fallen down.
One window dim, a loop-hole to the sight,
Shed round the room a pale, penurious light;
Here rags, gay.colored, eked the broken glass,
There panes of wood supplied the vacant space.
As, pondering deep, I gazed, with grating roar
The hinges creaked, and open stood the door.
Two little boys, half-naked from the waist,
With staring wonder, eyed me, as I passed.
The smile of pity blended with the tear,-
Ah me! how rarely comfort visits here!
The lazy, lounging owner I have seen
Hurrying and bustling round the busy green;
The loudest prater, in a blacksmith's shop;
T'he wisest statesman, o'er a drunken cup;
(His sharp-boned horse, the street that nightly fed,
Tied many an hour in yonder tavern shed.)
In every gambling, racing match, abroad;
But a rare hearer in the house of God.
Such, such my children, is the dismal cot,
Where drowsy sloth endures her wretcbed lot.