COUNT RUMFORD'S ESSAYS.

THESE, Virtue, are thy triumphs, that adorn
Fitliest our nature, and bespeak us born
For loftiest action ;-not to gaze and run
From clime to clime; or batten in the sun,
Dragging a drony flight from flower to flower,
Like summer insects in a gaudy hour;
Nor yet o'er lovesick tales with fancy range,
And cry ""Tis pitiful, 'tis passing strange!
But on life's varied views to look around,
And raise expiring sorrow from the ground :—
And he who thus hath borne his part assign'd
For the sad fellowship of human kind,
Or for a moment soothed the bitter pain
Of a poor brother-has not lived in vain.

1796.

In my calmer moments I have the firmest faith that all things work together for good. But alas! it seems a long and a dark process.

THE early year's fast-flying vapours stray
In shadowing trains across the orb of day ;
And we, poor insects of a few short hours,
Deem it a world of gloom.

Were it not better hope, a nobler doom,

Proud to believe, that with more active powers,

On rapid many-coloured wing,

We thro' one bright perpetual spring

Shall hover round the fruits and flowers,

Screen'd by those clouds, and cherish'd by those

showers?

TO THE REV. W. J. H.,

WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES ON HIS FLUTE.

I.

HUSH, ye clamorous Cares! be mute!

Again, dear Harmonist! again
Thro' the hollow of thy flute

Breathe that passion-warbled strain :
Till Memory each form shall bring
The loveliest of her shadowy throng;
And Hope, that soars on skylark wing,
Carol wild her gladdest song.

II.

O skill'd with magic spell to roll

The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul !
Breathe thro' thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed Maiden mild;
And bid her raise the Poet's kindred strain
In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.

III.

In Freedom's Undivided dell,

Where Toil and Health with mellow'd Love shall dwell,

Far from Folly, far from men,

In the rude romantic glen,

Up the cliff, and thro' the glade,

Wand'ring with the dear, loved maid,

I shall listen to the lay

And ponder on thee far away!

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Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire
Making my fond attuned heart his lyre"
Thy honor'd form, my Friend, shall re-appear,
And I will thank thee with a raptur'd tear.

1796.

TO A PRIMROSE.

THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON.

"nitens et roboris expers

Turget et insolida est: at spe delectat."-OVID.

THY smiles I note, sweet early flower,
That, peeping from thy rustic bower,
The festive news to earth dost bring,
A fragrant messenger of Spring!

But, tender blossom! why so pale?
Dost hear stern Winter in the gale?
And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky
To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre sickness wears,
When health's first feeble beam appears;
So languid are the smiles that seek
To settle on the careworn cheek,

When timorous hope the head uprears,
Still drooping and still moist with tears,
If through dispersing grief be seen
Of bliss the heavenly spark serene.

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.

THIS day among the faithful placed,

And fed with fontal manna,

O with maternal title graced,

Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,

I'll breathe this more compendious prayer,—
May'st thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name-a potent spell,-
That bids the virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell,
Confess'd to Fancy's eye ;—

Meek quietness without offence;
Content in homespun kirtle ;
True love; and true love's innocence,
White blossom of the myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet child!
These virtues may'st thou win ;
With face as eloquently mild
To say, they lodge within.

So, when, her tale of days all flown,
Thy mother shall be mist here ;

When Heaven at length shall claim its own,
And angels snatch their sister,

Some hoary-headed friend perchance
May gaze with stifled breath,
And oft, in momentary trance,
Forget the waste of death.

Even thus a lovely rose I view'd,
In summer-swelling pride;

Nor mark'd the bud, that, green and rude,
Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanc'd I pass'd again that way
In autumn's latest hour,

And wond'ring saw the self-same spray
Rich with the self-same flower.

Ah! fond deceit ! the rude, green bud,

Alike in shape, place, name,

Had bloom'd where bloom'd the parent stud,
Another, and the same!

1796.

MUTUAL PASSION.

ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET.

I LOVE and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who:

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they'd love him too.

Yet while my joy's unknown,

Its

rosy buds are but half blown ;

What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own.