Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales, -

O nymph reserved, while now the brighthaired Sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With braid ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weakeyed bat,

With short, shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;

Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy
darkening vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial, loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp,
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her
brows with sedge,

i And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy

scene;

Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires;

And hears their simple bell, and marks

o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual, dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest
Eve!

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes, -

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling
Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!

JAMES MERRICK.

[1720 - 1769.]

THE CHAMELEON.

OFT has it been my lot to mark

A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade lias been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you 'll allow-
I've seen and sure I ought to know."
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

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Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talked of this, and then of that, Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other mat

ter,

Of the chameleon's form and nature.
'A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun:
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold there," the other quick replies; "T is green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food.”

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed
Extended in the cooling shade."

"T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure

ye.

"Green!" cries the other in a fury; "Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"

"T were no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use."

So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your
pother;

The creature 's neither one nor t' other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candlelight;
I marked it well, 't was black as jet-
You stare but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
“And I'll be sworn, that when you've

seen

The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." 'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.'

He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!-'t was white.

5

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school;

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,

But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till

morn;

She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion

rose.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a

year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man

learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to

scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And even his failings leaned to virtue's side:

But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control,

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last, faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected

grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts

the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew:

Well had the boding tremblers learned

to trace

67

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;

Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's
tale,

No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;

No more the siith his dusky brow shall clear,

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear.

The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.