THE BALLOON.

SO on the shoreless air th' intrepid Gaul Launch'd the vast concave of his buoyant ball. Journeying on high, the silken castle glides Bright as a meteor through the azure tides; O'er towns, and tow'rs, and temples, wins it's way, Or mounts sublime, and gilds the vault of day. Silent, with upturn'd eyes, unbreathing crowds Pursue the floating wonder to the clouds ;

And, flush'd with transport or benumb'd with fear,
Watch, as it rises, the diminish'd sphere.

-Now less and less-and now a speck is seen;
And now the fleeting rack obtrudes between!
With bended knees, rais'd arms, and suppliant brows,
To ev'ry shrine they breathe their mingled vows.
"Save him, ye saints! who o'er the good preside;
Bear him, ye winds! ye stars benignant! guide."
-The calm philosopher in ether sails,

Views broader stars, and breathes in purer gales;
Sees, like a map, in many a waving line,

Round Earth's blue plains her lucid waters shine;
Sees at his feet the forky lightnings glow,

And hears innocuous thunders roar below.

DARWIN'S BOTANIC GARDEN.

MAY DAY.

BORN in yon blaze of orient sky,

Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold,
Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,

And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.
For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow,
For thee descends the sunny show'r;

The rills in softer murmurs flow,

And brighter blossoms gem the bow'r. Light Graces, dress'd in flow'ry wreaths, And tiptoe Joys their hands combine; And Love his sweet contagion breathes, And laughing dances round thy shrine. Warm with new life, the glitt'ring throngs, On quiv'ring fin and rustling wing, Delighted join their votive songs, And hail thee," Goddess of the Spring." DARWIN'S BOTANIC GARDEN.

ON A TREE CUT IN PAPER.

FAIR hand, that can on virgin paper write,
Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white;
Whose travel o'er that silver field does show
Like track of leverets in morning snow.

Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought,
Without a spot or blemish to the thought.
Strange, that your fingers should the pencil foil,
Without the help of colours or of oil!

For though a painter boughs and leaves can make,
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake;
Whose breath salutes your new created grove,
Like southern winds, and makes it gently move.
Orpheus could make the forest dance, but you
Can make the motion and the forest too.

WALLER.

THE PLEASURES OF THE COUNTRY.

NOT rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirits, and restore

The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds,

That sweep the skirt of some far spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar

Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated Nature sweeter still,

To sooth and satisfy the human ear

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The livelong night. Nor these alone, whose notes
Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks and kites, that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud;
The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl,
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh;
Yet, heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,
And only there, please highly for their sake.

God made the country, and man made the town:
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught,
That life holds out to all, should most abound,
And least be threaten'd, in the fields and groves?
Possess ye, therefore, ye, who, borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue

But that of idleness, and taste no scenes

But such as art contrives; possess ye still
Your element, there only ye can shine!
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves are planted to console at noon
The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moon-beam, sliding softly in between.
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish;
Birds warbling, all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our softer satellite.

*

*

Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss

Of Paradise, that has surviv'd the fall!
Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm
Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup,
Thou art the nurse of virtue! In thiné arms
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heav'n-born, and destin❜d to the skies again.
Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador❜d,
That reeling goddess, with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support;
For thou art meek and constant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tried love
Joys, that her stormy raptures never yield.

COWPER.

A COMPARISON.

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid

Silent and chaste she steals along

Far from the world's gay busy throng,

With gentle yet prevailing force

Intent upon

her destin'd course,

Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes,
Pure bosom'd as the wat'ry glass,

And Heav'n reflected in her face.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon theé still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
"Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede..
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields, which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripen'd year!

COWPER.