X.

LET the bard of Teian measure,

Sing of wild and wanton pleasure;

Let him praise the wine in urns,
And the feverish joy that burns ;
Wine that sparkles, joy that burns;
Mine be still the milder ray,
Shed from pure religion's lay;

Let my hopes to Heaven ascend;
Let me have my GoD my friend;
Let my soul, in pleasures pure,
Still delight,-I ask no more.
Cherubs o'er my slumbers smiling;

Balmy peace the time beguiling;
Brightest raptures full in view,

When I tid this world adieu!

Teian taste your fleeting pleasure,

Mine will last and without measure.

THE pen of THOMAS MOORE, has consigned him to infamy with the pious, except, like Rochester, he recal his writings. His poetry is beautiful, but many of his sentiments are fit only to be cherished in some hothouse of vice, or in Milton's Pandemonium.

Is it strange that we have so many youthful libertines, so many confirmed debauchees of twenty one, when the fire of genius is so frequently employed in attempting to light up damnation and prettily tinsel the way to hell.Germany has poured upon us, her morceaus, France her luring literary elegancies, until infidelity wears as pleasing an appearance as fancy can give her, or Satan can desire. But the hour of retribution hastens on, when the dream of false elegance will be broken by avenging thunder, and the arm of the puny atheist, and of the sorrowing infidel, will rise to Heaven in supplication, in vain. Then will it be known whether the word that came from Sinai and from the blessed JESUS be true, or the sickly ravings. of distempered imaginations and depraved hearts.

ANACREON MOORE.

PARODIES.

ODE XXXVIII.

LET us raise the "golden bowl,"*

Let us swell the song of soul,

To him our GOD who loves so well,

* The heart. See Scripture.

The "golden bowl" in choral swell.

HIM, who instructs the sons of earth,
To purify the ways of mirth;

HIM, who was nurs'd by Heav'nly love,
And cradled near a Bethl'em grove;

HIM, that the queen of matron charms
Revering held in purer arms.

From him that joyous transport flows,
Which the forgiving sinner knows ;
With him, the mind forgets to darkle,
And brilliant graces learn to sparkle.
Behold! our hearts an off'ring bear,
Whose grateful fragrance mounts the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the shades they fly, they fly!
Grasp the harp; in prayers sinking,
Man of sorrow leave thy thinking!
Oh! can the tears we lend to thought
In life's account avail tis aught ?
Can we discern, with all our lore,
The path we're yet to journey o'er ?
No, no! the walk of life is dark,

JESUS alone can light a spark!

Then let me raise the praying tide,
And thro' the hymn rejoicing glide;
Let me imbibe the spicy breath
Of pardon sent to fragrant death;
And from my Saviour's kiss inhale
The most reviving, richest gale!
To souls that count distressing care,
Let him retire and shroud him there;
While we will raise the golden bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, our GoD, who loves so well
The "golden bowl" in choral swell!

XXXIX.

HOW I love the infant boy,

Singing sweet of Heav'nly joy!

How I love the pious sage,

Smiling thro' the veil of age!

And where'er this man of years,

In the house of GoD appears,

Age is on his temples hung,