Thy ev'ry wish: but soon the villain's smile
May poison every source of pure delight.
Thy ear may close upon the village bell,
That now on Sabbath leads thee to thy God-
Thy little feet may then beguile thee far
From every simple scene, thy home had known,
To wander thro' the wild. From every storm,
Unhous'd, unsheltered, from thy God estrang'd,
Thy heart desponding, and thy soul deprest,
Experience then may whisper in thine ear,
To seek thy parent, as thy first, best friend.
So have I mark'd the floweret by the hedge,
Unfold its beauties to the morning sun,
To hail the stranger as the source of life,
And, heedless, shake the vital dews away,
Till night steal on, and shroud its withered stalk!
And leaves, wild scattered by the western blast!
Yet would I not that man, within his shell
Should snail-like shrink, and shun the social
joy:
If he pursue the beaten path of life,
Though on his eye, no hot-bed blossoms glare,
To fascinate his artificial sense,
Yet no thorns tear him, and no weeds obstruct:
But if, with devious step, he turn aside,
Where Fancy lures him, with her magic wand,
To sip the freshness of the violet's lips,
He may not murmur, if the briars wound;
His way was open,-unrestrain❜d his will.
THE deep-green foliage that the fickle year So lately wore, has faded-Autumn now, Fantastic, dresses in her varied hues.
Mark, how the withered, fallen leaves are borne
In whirlpool-motion on the western blast
That whistles through the oaks. Now, herald-
like,
They sweep along the surface of the wood,
To tell the covey that the Autumn tempts The sportsman's stroll. The whirring pheasant whirls
His quick, short flight, untimely shot, unlike Those leaves, which sheltered from the rains of spring
His unfledged brood, and live their proper hour.
There are, who loud declaim, and idly tell
That Cruelty, with savage smile, leads on
The sportsman to the fields. Amid this class,
Not few can breathe the well-timed, measured
Of affectation, when a partridge bleeds,
Who may not startle at the murderous stab
Which makes them heirs!-Aye, I have seen the tear
That trembled on their cheeks, congealed, ere yet
The eye, for which it rose, had traced its course! Out on such men, whose sensibility
Is warmed towards brutes alone!-For such are
Who pray from habit, and from habit, sin!
I may not choose to justify the man,
Whose wanton hands do pander to his vanity-
Who, merciless, can clot the dove's soft down
To show his skill-such souls I leave to God,
Not judging then, when e'en no shade of doubt
Opposes reason's voice. With holy writ,
His sanction, justifier, and his guide,
What caidle vil, sentimental sigh,
What rigid moralist may stay that arm
That never, needlessly, destroys one link
In nature's chain? Aye, 'tis the fashion now,
To bid the eye perform the heart's sad office;
To be the source of sentimental grief;
No more the channel for those tears, that once Warm and unbidden, streamed from some poor heart
Half-broken! "Tis the fashion, too, to mould The eye to mingle tears with those that shine On Fancy's page, while many a wasting sigh From Misery's child, unheeded, strikes that ear Whose needless ornaments, might still the pang
That rends his broken heart. The fashion 'tis
Το gem the eye with pearls, to catch the rays That beam from lustres at a Theatre,
And wear the outward show of sensibility.
How pleas'd to wander on the Lehigh's bank, As rippling gently o'er its pebbled bed,
It wafts a mournful music to my ear.
How pleas'd, if He, who stamp'd my wayward fate
With many a sad, and many a dreary change, Had so ordain'd, that like this quiet stream, My hours might onward glide, serene, and
The streamlet, oozing from the moss-clad clift,
In some sequester'd and untrodden wild
(Save by the prowling wolf, or lonely owl,
Whose shrieks of night, e'en echo dreads to
note,)
Rolls calmly onward to the mellow plain,
And sips its sweets from many a fragrant flower,
Whose freshness floats on every airy wave
By nothing ruffled, save a mossy rock,
Or trunk of aged oak, that time has slain,
That offer scarce a momentary check,
But add fresh vigour to its silent stream;
Onward it speeds its pure transparent wave,
Till having passed the rustic's lowly shed,
It loses all its sweetness, all its calm,
And rolls an angry and a tainted tide;
Then, mingling in the many-fountain'd stream
Of Ocean, by attractive beams upraised,
To kiss the fields with many an evening dew.
Thus, in the morning dawn of life, the youth
Starts from the goal of sweet simplicity,
To run his race-
-His playful, untaught steps
Pursue the flow'ry path-till syrens smile.
Then soft Seduction crosses o'er his path,
Maddening his brain, and leads the wanderer
where
He sips of Dissipation's pois'nous draught.
Here on the eye, the fascinating dome
Of novelty now beams, and in he sails,
And revels, quaffing from the burnished cup,
Beneath whose surface lurks the deadly drug.
Till worn and wearied by his sad career,
He sinks, an helpless and a tainted mass,
Into th' unfathom'd ocean of eternity,
Where Mercy pardons, while the seraphs smile.
JACQUES.
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