Now spacious lands, and mountains tall, The pleasures we in childhood felt Are duller grown-less bold-less brightAnd all their fairer portions melt, Like clouds, before the mental sight. Who hath not felt a nameless thrill, Scenes that we never can forget? To think they shall return no more. Behind us lies a lovely field, Before us lies a dreary waste ; We vainly wish its soil to yield The sweets we could no longer taste! Thence, sick'ning at the thought, we turn, And to our griefs and follies fly; In solitude and silence mourn, And, pond'ring, heave the pensive sigh! SUCH THINGS WERE. JOHN RANNIE. SCENES of my youth! ye once were dear, I once was wont to linger here, 'Twas here a tender father strove On them I could with faith rely; They smile in heav'n, exempt from care, Whilst I remember-Such things were! 'Twas here, where calm and tranquil rest O'erpays the peasant for his toil, That first in blessing I was blest With glowing Friendship's open smile. My friend, far distant doom'd to roam, Now braves the fury of the seas; He fled his peaceful happy home, His little fortune to increase; While bleeds afresh the wound of care, When I remember-Such things were! 'Twas here, ev'n in this gloomy grove, I fondly gaz'd on Laura's charms, Who, blushing, own'd a mutual love, And sigh'd responsive in my arms. Though hard the soul-conflicting strife, Yet Fate, the cruel tyrant, bore Far from my sight the charm of life, There first I saw the morn appear STANZAS WRITTEN IN A WOOD. ANONYMOUS. A SCENE like this can seldom fail to please, And hold sweet converse with the Sylvan Muse. Her let me worship with obedience true, Oh! let me frequent from the plains retire, Shew me, kind Druid, some pacífic dale, Of armies victim'd in the fields of war. Perhaps, e'en now, while here the rustic lay I tune, deep pond'ring over Nature's page, Thousands stand forth in terrible array, And hosts with hosts in deeds of death engage. Full many a tear will tender mothers shed, Will feel the pangs which none but fathers know. Happy for me, that underneath this shade Where winding rills run murm'ring through the glade, And listen to the blackbird's mellow song. What tho' fair Iris hath not ting'd thy wing, Why dances thus yon butterfly so gay, Lost is the lustre of thy silky vest, Here, where no multitudes its gloss descry; Hence, where spectators may observe thee best, Nor hide thy beauties from the public eye. * Feigned to preside over the rainbow. With awful gloom this solemn place is fill'd, High over-head is perch'd the clam'rous rook, Croaking harsh notes from her discordant tongue; With secret pleasure she surveys the nook Where she has built the cradle for her young. Here let me muse, until my eye beholds Then homeward let me meditate my way, ODE ON CUPID. From Anacreon. MOORE. 'Twas noon of night, when round the pole And mortals, wearied with the day, |