Puslapio vaizdai


IN other men we faults can spy,

And blame the mote that dims their eye ;
Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own stronger errors blind.

A turkey tired of common food, Forsook the barn, and sought the wood; Behind her ran an infant train,

Collecting, here and there, a grain.

"Draw near, my birds," the mother cries,
"This hill delicious fare supplies.
Behold the busy negro race,—
See, millions blacken all the place!
Fear not; like me with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.

How blest, how envied, were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife!
But man, cursed man! on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days.
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savoury chine;
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for gluttony are cursed,
Of the seven deadly sins, the worst."


An ant, who climb'd beyond her reach, Thus answer'd from a neighbouring beech; 66 Ere you remark another's sin,

Bid thy own conscience look within ;
Control thy more voracious bill,

Nor, for a breakfast, nations kill.”





As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene,
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head :
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.



MARK yon old mansion, frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze;
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd.
The mouldering gate-way strews the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
See through the fractured pediment reveal'd,
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield,
The martin's old hereditary nest:

Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.

Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest;
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we chased the slipper by its sound,
And turned the blindfold hero round and round.



As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,

Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight;
And still, with heraldry's rich hues impress'd,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart ;
The clock still points its moral to the heart:
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear!
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near :
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time?

That massive beam with curious carvings wrought,
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought;
Those muskets cased with venerable rust,

Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their dust, Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast,

Starting to life-all whisper of the past!



FOR thee his ivory load Behemoth bore,
And far Sofala teem'd with golden ore;
Thine all the arts that wait on wealth's increase,
Or bask and wanton in the beam of peace.
When Tiber slept beneath the cypress gloom,
And silence held the lonely woods of Rome;
Or e'er to Greece the builder's skill was known
Or the light chisel brush'd the Parian stone;
Yet here fair science nursed her infant fire,
Fann'd by the artist aid of friendly Tyre.
Then tower'd the palace, then in awful state
The Temple rear'd its everlasting gate.
No workman steel, no ponderous axes rung;
Like some tall palm the noiseless fabric sprung.
Majestic silence! then the harp awoke,

The cymbal clang'd, the deep-voiced trumpet spoke ;
And Salem spread her suppliant arms abroad,

View'd the descending flame, and bless'd the present



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