That same sport, when none would tire,
Round the good old winter fire.
Never may the open brow,
Or, the heart that's joyous now,
Or, the wild and wanton dream,
Or, the gay, unflickering beam,
Or, the footstep light and airy,
Find the future visionary-
'Twere a Poet's sweetest pray'r,
That their fortunes should be fair.
What shall compass Beauty's dow'r→→
Who shall sing of Beauty's power-
Who is weak that Beauty arms—
Who is dull that Beauty charms?—
Though the Minstrel slumber long, i
Beauty wakes him into song;
All his human bands she breaks,
All his heavenly ardor wakes,
Bids him ride on eagle wings,
Soaring to celestial things.
In her bow'r long days he lies,
Raptures sealing up his eyes,
"Till she prompt him with a glance,
And he lifts the lyre and lance;
Throws aside his apathy,
Learns to live and dares to die,
Nor the storm, nor piercing wind,
Stays the ardour of his mind.
From his limbs the locks are hurl'd,
And he rushes o'er the world;
All his spirits now awaken,
From his eye the scales are taken,
And his living song is given,
To that brightest form of heaven;
To the world's eye she is shown,
As her charms have fii'd his own,
Till, as mad as he who sings,
All the million put on wings,
Soaring for the embodied glory,
Of that wild eyed Poet's story.
They would compass Beauty's dow'r,
They would witness Beauty's pow'r,
They would revel in her arms,
Blest with all her sacred charms-
But she keeps the charms and spell,
For the bard who sings them well;
Though, for him, the prince of verse,
They are yet the care and curse-
She has bound him in her chain,
And he never sings again,
Ruling not his fellow men,
He has lost his empire then-
Hush'd the lyre that once delighted,
And the wreath of bay is blighted.
When is set the orb of day,
And the moon with placid light
Cheers the lonely traveller's way
'Mid the darkness of the night—
When the bright stars beaming through,
And along each waving pine,
Scatter'd o'er the trackless blue,
In the spacious azure shine—
When the drowsy earth is still,
And no single jarring sound,
Save the trickling of the rill,
Breaks the spell of silence round-
With perhaps, the sullen moan,
When the prosing owl would sing,
Though young in years, in wisdom hoary, Sworn foe alike to Whig and Tory, Serene I mount the upper story,
And thence look down,
With towering grandeur, ease and glory, On this
In soiled shirt, and tattered breeches, Disdaining worldly power and riches, For others' wealth my palm ne'er itches, But wields at will,
That source of poems, songs and speeches, My "grey goose quill!"
Oh, sacred weapon! Source of pleasure! The dunces scourge! the poet's treasure! Alone, exempt from legal seizure → Thy charms delight
My mind by day, and sweetly measure My dreams by night.
Like thee, self-buoyant, firm and steady, Blythe as- on May day,
Or College Fresh let loose on play day,
I careless snore-
E'en thee, vociferous, cursed pay day,
I hear no more.
My pleasing prospects never vary,
My spirits rarified and airy,
No Fortunatus, witch or fairy,
Can mend my diet:-
Not D in his Baratary;
`Reign'd half so quiet.
Ye Poets! mark the truths I teach,
Strive all Parnassus' heights to reach,
Nor heed what groundling Poets preach
Of fame and glory;
Who seeks for attic wit must reach
The attic story!
AN INTRODUCTION,
TO THE ALBUM OF MISS
While other bards their homage pay,
And celebrate thy natal day-
While swains upon thy virtues dwell,
And gallants of thy beauties tell-
A humble bard, with downcast look,
Would sing the virtues of thy book!
No minstrel he, with genius strong,
To mount up in the realms of song,
But one, who, in his utmost pride,
Still creeps along the mountain side-
His highest hope, with timid pen,
To scribble of thy Album then.
Now, while its leaves are free from stain,
An emblem of thyself we gain;
The pages free from spot appear,
And teach us, thou, like them, art fair.
Thine is the gentle cherub's part,
And shadowless thy hope and heart.
But when with sable streams o'erspread,
Hope's brightest visions here are read;
And Friendship comes with genial smile,
And Love, beguil'd, and to beguile-
And pensive Thought, with evening ray,
Rejoiced at their harmonious play.
Oh, may thy young heart feel the power,
Of each of these in every hour---
While Hope, etherial, comes to charm,
And Love adores with ardour warm---
And Truth, well known, beside thee stands,
And hears, and heeds, and links your hands.
Oh, may the current of thy days,
Unlike the minstrel's idle lays,
In'sweet composure glide along,
A calm, uninterrupted, song,
Whose notes, like those that swell above,
Still cheer with peace, and charm with love!
When appears the God of Light,
In his high imperial car,
Driving with unmeasured flight,
The o'erladen night afar-
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