"Mortals, in vain ye hope to find, Or saint to hear, or angel to defend." So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear; Attend, ye sons of men! attend, and say, Say, does not reason in this form descry But emulates the diamond's blaze, Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom, Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays, Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day Flush'd with the bloom of youth through heaven's eternal year. Know, mortals! know, ere first ye sprung, And taught Archangel's their triumphant song. Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, And ocean heave on its extended bed; Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky; The tawny lion stalk; the rapid eagle fly. Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face, And, as he 'rose, the high behest was given, "That I, alone, of all the host of heaven, Should reign protectress of the godlike youth.* Thus the Almighty spake: he spake, and call'd me Truth. ODE TO THE MORNING. BY THE SAME. HAIL to thy living light, That bids each dewy-spangled flow'ret rise, Bids silver lustre grace yon sparkling tide, Away, ye goblins all! Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt; Whose vagrant feet have trac'd your secret haunt Beside some lonely wall, Or shatter'd ruin of a moss-grown tow'r, Where, at pale midnight's stillest hour, Through each rough chink the solemn orb of night Pours momentary gleams of trembling light. Away, ye elves, away! Shrink at ambrosial Morning's living ray; That living ray, whose pow'r benign Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye, Where, thron'd in artless majesty, The cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustic shrine. THE FIRE-SIDE. BY DR. COTTON. DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, In folly's maze advance; Though singularity and pride. Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, Nor join the giddy dance, From the gay world we'll oft retire Where love our hours employ; If solid happiness we prize, And they are fools who roam: The world has nothing to bestow; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, When with impatient wing she left That safe retreat, the ark; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more Explor'd the sacred bark. Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Our babes shall richest comforts bring; Whence pleasures ever rise: We'll form their minds, with studious care, To all that's manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. While they our wisest hours engage, And crown our hoary hairs: They'll grow in virtue every day, And recompense our cares. |