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Shoots into port at some well haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form collected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore
• Where tempests never beat nor billows roari;'
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, .
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he !
The thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have rene w'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

i Garth.

ODE TO PEACE.

Come, Peace of mind, delightful guest ! Return and make thy downy nest

Once more in this sad heart : Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view ;

We therefore need not part.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From avarice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles ?
For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,

The banquet of thy smiles ?

The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make ?

And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequester'd shed,

To be a guest with them ?

For thee I panted, thee I prized,
For thee I gladly sacrificed

Whate'er I loved before ;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say-

Farewell! we meet no more?

BOADICEA.

AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods ;

Sage beneath a spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief: Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.

• Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish-write that word

In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

* Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !

• Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

" Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

• Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew ;

None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;

Dying hurld them at the foe :

“Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestow d,

Shame and ruin wait for you.'

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE

SUN.
Patron of all those luckless brains,

That to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning ;
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations ;
Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, hast thou stolen away

A poet's drop of ink ?
Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,
Impell’d through regions dense and rare

By all the winds that blow !
Ordain'd perhaps, ere summer flies,

Combined with millions more,
To form an Iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,

So soon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,
Give wit, that what is left may shine

With equal grace below..

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