All, all are fled, beyond the western main,

To sport in climes beneath serener skies: Stern Winter frowns; but let not man complainSpring shall return, and brighter hours arise.

Till then, if keen the blast, the cheering fire
Draws pleasure's social circle round its side;
While the united seasons all conspire,

To heap the board, where mirth and wit preside.

But let not mirth disdain to melt at woe!
The Poor should never supplicate in vain;
When, o'er the dreary waste of trackless snow,
They fly from Winter's desolate domain.

Then ere they sink beneath th' inclement sky,
Kind Christian, ope thine hospitable gate;
With active zeal prevent Want's asking eye,
And soothe the anguish of the wanderer's fate.

So shall e'en Winter, mid the howling storm,

To Pity's god-like heart more comfort bring, Than Autumn's riches, Summer's radiant form,

Or the soft blush, that decks the cheek of Spring!

SONNET

то

DELIA,

ON COMPLAINING OF WANT OF SLEEP.

MORPHEUS! thou gentle god of soft repose,
Why art thou absent from my much-lov'd fair?
Though oft regardless of my midnight woes,
Yet take, O take my DELIA to thy care.

And see! she courts thee:-O that I were sleep!
Then would I close those dear bewitching eyes,
Tho' 'bove the sun's proud ray their beams I prize;
And in "forgetfulness her senses steep."

What bliss her nightly visitant to be!

To 'fold her, though with unsubstantial arms! To gaze, though but a phantom, on her charms! Yet, MORPHEUs, since that heav'n's reserv'd for thee, From her sweet slumbers frightful visions keep, And let her not- as I do wake to weep!

FOR MUSIC.

OF all the mis'ries that destroy,
In bloom of youth, its promis'd joy;
What equals the heart-rending pain,
He feels, who loves-but loves in vain?

As the pale Moon ascends on high,
He heaves the deep, dejected sigh:
And when the day's bright Orb appears,
He views it through a mist of tears.

Deaf to his oft-repeated call,

Hope never comes, who comes to all;
And slighted by the faithless fair,
He falls a victim to despair.

But when his parting knell is rung,
And Pity his sad dirge has sung;

Too late those strains her mind will move

To mourn the youth, who died for love!

Too late the sounds of death will toll,
When keen despair shall seize her soul!
Too late, when Fate's avenging doom
Shall sink her in her Lover's tomb!

ON

THE MOON.

THOUGH but with borrow'd lustre CYNTHIA

shine,

The origin she boasts is still divine;

And from her meeker orb o'er nature throws

A peaceful stillness, and a calm repose:

Save, when the Bird of Eve, from dewy spray,
Awakens silence with her thrilling lay;
For, oh, her strains too tenderly impart
Their plaintive sorrows to the love-lorn heart!

IN DEFENCE OF

A PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE.

"As if Life depended upon Luck, and all that we are, or can "be, and all that we have or hope for, could possibly be "referred to Accident!"

COWPER.

SCEPTICS, in vain your system ye advance,
A sparrow falls not to the ground by chance.
If sacred truth this firm assurance give,
How then by chance can GOD's own image live?

If chance alone direct this earthly ball,
Why may not chance as well create it all;
And form what we behold so round and fair,
From jumbling atoms since united there?

Who builds a system, warring thus with sense,
Denies an interposing Providence.