Beneath her clear discerning eye The visionary shadows fly Of Folly's painted show: She sees, thro' ev'ry fair disguise, THE TRANQUIL EVENING. [IBID.] How sweet the calm of this sequester'd shore, And solitude, and silent eve restore The sighing gale, whose murmurs lull to rest The busy tumult of declining day, To sympathetic quiet sooths the breast, wild emotion dies away. And every Farewell the objects of diurnal care, Your task be ended with the setting sun; Let all be undisturb'd vacation here, While o'er yon wave ascends the peaceful moon. What beauteous visions o'er the soften'd heart, And cheer the soul with more than mortal views. Here faithful Memory wakens all her powers, Come, *******, come, and with me share Come, while the cool, the solitary hours Each foolish care and giddy wish controul, With all thy soft persuasion's wonted pow'rs, Beyond the stars transport my listening soul. Oft, when on earth detain'd by empty show, Thy voice has taught the trifler how to rise; Taught her to look with scorn on things below, And seek her better portion in the skies、 Come, and the sacred eloquence repeat; The world shall vanish at its gentle sound, Angelic forms shall visit this retreat, And opening Heav'n diffuse its glories round. TO THE FEATHERED RACE. [GRAVES.] AGAIN the balmy zephyr blows, Fresh verdure decks the grove, Each bird with vernal rapture glows, And tunes his notes to love. Ye gentle warblers, hither fly, Here freely hop from spray to spray, Amidst this cool translucent rill, That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill, And revel in the shade. No school-boy rude, to mischief prone, E'er shews his ruddy face, Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone, Hither the vocal thrush repairs, The goldfinch dreads no slimy snares Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt, Yon distant woods among, And round my friendly grotto chaunt Let not the harmless red-breast fear, And seek a sure asylum here, With one that loves his home. My trees, for you, ye artless tribe, Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe For you these cherries I protect, To you these plums belong; Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd, But sweeter far your song. Let then this league betwixt us made, Mine be the gift of fruit and shade— Your songs be my reward. THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. [ANON.] PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief-and Heav'n will bless your store. These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek, Has been the channel to a flood of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road, |