FROM THE TRIUMPHS OF TEMPER.

WHY art thou fled, O blest poetic time,
When fancy wrought the miracles of rhyme;
When, darting from her star-encircled throne,
Her poet's eye commanded worlds unknown;
When, by her fiat made a mimic god,
He saw existence waiting on his nod,
And at his pleasure into being brought
New shadowy hosts, the vassals of his thought,
In joy's gay garb, in terror's dread array,
Darker than night, and brighter than the day;
Who, at his bidding, through the wilds of air,
Rais'd willing mortals far from earthly care,
And led them wandering through his wide domain,
Beyond the bounds of nature's narrow reign;
While their rapt spirits, in the various flight,
Shook with successive thrills of new delight?
Return, sweet season, grac'd with fiction's flowers,
Let not cold system cramp thy genial powers!
Shall mild morality in garb uncouth,
The housewife garb of plain and homely truth,
Robb'd by stern method of her rosy crown,
Chill her faint votaries by a wintry frown?
No; thou sweet friend of man, as suits thee best,
Shine forth in fable's rich-embroider'd vest!
O make my verse thy vehicle, thy arms,
To spread o'er social life thy potent charms!
And thou, Sophrosyne, mysterious sprite!
If haply I may trace thy steps aright,
Roving through paths untrod by mortal feet,
To paint for human eyes thy heavenly seat,
Shed on my soul some portion of that power,
Which sav'd Serena in the trying hour,
To bear those trials, which, however hard,
As bards all tell us, may befall the bard;
The fop's pert jest, the critic's frown severe,
Learning's proud cant, with envy's artful sneer,
And, the vext poet's last and worst disgrace,
His cold blank bookseller's rhyme-freezing face.
Hence ye dark omens, that to Spleen belong,
Ye shall not check the current of my song,

While Beauty's lovely race, for whom I sing,
Fire my warm hand to strike the ready string.
As quiet now her lightest mantle laid
O'er the still senses of the sleeping maid,
Her nightly visitant, her faithful guide,
Descends in all her empyrean pride;

That fairy shape no more she deigns to wear,
Whose light foot smooths the furrow plough'd by care
In mortal faces, while her tiny spear

Gives a kind tingle to the caution'd ear.
Now, in her nobler shape, of heavenly size,
She strikes her votary's soul with new surprise.
Jove's favourite daughter, arm'd in all his powers,
Appear'd less brilliant to th' attending hours,
When, on the golden car of Juno rais'd,
In heavenly pomp the queen of battles blaz'd.
With all her lustre, but without the dread
Which from her arm the frowning Gorgon shed,
Sophrosyne descends, with guardian love,
To waft her gentle ward to worlds above.
From her fair brow a radiant diadem

Rose in twelve stars, and every separate gem
Shot magic rays, of virtue to control

Some passion hostile to the human soul.

Round her sweet form a robe of æther flow'd,
And in a wondrous car the smiling spirit rode;
Firm as pure ivory, it charm'd the sight
With finer polish and a softer white.
The hand of beauty, with an easy swell,

Scoop'd the free concave like a bending shell;
And on its rich exterior, art display'd

The triumphs of the power the car convey'd.
Here, in celestial tints, surpassing life,
Sate lovely gentleness, disarming strife;
There, young affection, born of tender thought,
In rosy chains the fiercer passions caught :
Ambition, with his sceptre snapt in twain,
And avarice, scorning what his chests contain.
Round the tame vulture flies the fearless dove;
Soft innocence embraces playful love;
And laughing sport, the frolic child of air,
Buries in flowers the sinking form of care.

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WILLIAM JONES was born in London in 1746. His father, a native of Anglesey, was an eminent mathematician, and distinguished by the esteem of Newton and Halley; he died in 1749, and left the future care of the education of the son to his mother, a woman in every way qualified to discharge so arduous a duty. She lived to see her labours amply repaid: he became as distinguished for virtue as for learning. When but seven years old he was sent to Harrow school; even then, such was the rare promise of his childhood, that his master is said to have described him as "a boy of so active a mind, that if he were left naked and friendless on Salisbury Plain, he would find the way to fame and riches." He found the way to both. In 1764 he was entered at University College, Oxford, and two years afterwards obtained a Fellowship. From this period until 1783, when he was appointed one of the judges of the supreme court of judicature at Calcutta, he was continually occupied in pursuing knowledge through paths the most difficult, and where it could then have been sought only by men of large genius as well as active industry. In college he became master of all the usual scholastic acquirements, and commenced the study of Oriental Literature, in which he subsequently so much excelled. He succeeded in acquiring a thorough knowledge of eight languages; studied attentively, and made considerable progress, in eight more; and obtained some acquaintance with twelve others. His learning was not like the sand which "receives the shower" and yields nothing in return. He published a Treatise on Oriental Poetry, and other works on the languages of the East; composed a tragedy, and employed himself in "decyphering Chinese;" translated "the Greek Orations of Isæus, in cases relating to succession to doubtful property;" published a French letter to a French traveller, who had spoken disrespectfully of the University of Oxford; commenced a History of Turkey, and sketched the plan of an epic poem; translated into French, from an Eastern MSS., the Life of Nadir Shah; wrote in Latin "Commentaries on Asiatic Poetry;" and produced an Essay on the "Law of Bailments;" and in the midst of these weightier studies, learned music, dancing, fencing, riding; became a skilful chess player; travelled on the continent; wrote several elegant poems;-in fact, so labouring, and with so much success, as to realize our notions of "the admirable Crichton;" for his mind was elegant as well as vigorous; and the variety of its application appears little short of a miracle.

In 1774 he was called to the bar; but his desires turned towards India. His appointment to office in that country was the consummation of long and fondly-cherished hopes. It secured to him that advantage, without which taste is an affliction and genius a curse-Independence. It afforded opportunities of completing the vast works he had commenced, and of searching among the rich but neglected stores of another world; it was in fact giving reality to that which had been, comparatively, but a gorgeous dream.

In December, 1783, he entered on his judicial functions at Calcutta. From this period, to his death, he continued to labour with astonishing industry. In 1794 he was attacked with inflammation of the liver, of which he unhappily died, in the April of that year. His country has recorded his name as one of the "worthies" to whom she is indebted for equal honour and advantage.

The poetry of Sir William Jones is, as we have intimated, the produce of leisure hours rather than the results of any serious purpose. He had the praise of "adorning every thing he touched;" the dryest topics he rendered elegant and attractive; and when he turned his thoughts to subjects more capable of embellishment, he could scarcely have failed in "clothing them with beauty." As a poet, however, he cannot be described as great. His poems are, for the most part, translations, or paraphrases of ideas formed elsewhere. His original productions fill but a few pages. His mind appears to have been so deeply imbued with Oriental lore, and so fervent was his admiration of the mysteries of Brahminical idolatry, that he imagined he might create interest for subjects which never could excite sympathy; the allegories he borrowed from the East appear only absurd to the English reader; and the gorgeous drapery in which the Indian deities are arrayed, seem ungraceful and unnatural. Except, therefore, "The Persian Song to Hafiz," and one or two of less importance, the poems of Sir William Jones are forgotten.

SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight;

And, bid these arms thy neck infold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy! let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

O! when these fair, perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display ;—
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest;
As Tartars seize their destin'd prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow;
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art?

Speak not of fate:-ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,

Talk of the flow'rs that round us bloom :'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream :

To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

Beauty has such resistless power,
That ev'n the chaste Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy;
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah, weet maid! my counsel hear,—
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience render sage,)
While music charms the ravish'd ear;
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.

What cruel answer have I heard!
And yet, by heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which naught but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,