Nor smile, ye proud, if thoughts, like these, engage

The friendless soul in melancholy age,

More sweet, than all the hymns of active joy,

One moment sacred to this chaste employ,

One pious hour, to moral musing given,
Its relish truth, its harmonies from heaven!
And, as the hapless wretch, by storms o'ercast,
Clings, shuddering clings him, to the fatal mast,
So hope and love, yet buoyant on the wave,
Shall snatch their relics from the ravenous grave,
And most, as life recedes, with fond alarms
Fold the dear types immortal in their arms.

Near where a cypress shades the lonely heath,
Long has ST. AUBIN slept the sleep of death;
O'er the rude hillock waves the rank grass high,
And moans the wild blast, as it hurtles by:
One simple stone, with village rhymes bedight,
Just tells the tale to every passing wight,

And bids his drooping soul aspire to raise

Such love in life, in death such honest praise.

Sure, if one blessing heaven to mortals lend, 'Tis this pure peace, that calms the good man's end; 'Tis this transcendant power, whose views refined,

Control the passions, and correct the mind:

This, tho the pride of fortune melt away,

And drowsy age on sickening fancy prey,
Still lights the mind to feeling's gentler rest,
And sheds around the sunshine of the breast!'

When, warm with life, unclouded fancy glows, How loves the mind to roam at evening's close; Beside some murmuring brook, by memory led, To light the classic torch, and search the dead; Or raise each shadowy form of youthful mirth,

Love's plighted hour, and friendship's wintry hearth!

F

For these are scenes, tho marked on childhood's page,

Whence flows a charm beyond the waste of age.

Evoke its trains, evoke its noisy sports,

Its breezy woodwalks, and its green resorts,
Where every eve the little heroes prest,
To catch with eager ears some circling jest,
The passing creed, thro many a story spun,
Of witch or goblin, murdered knight or nun;
Or feats of pith, to every truant known,

Amused the crowd, and won the victor's crown;
How bright their shades in swift procession pass,
Seen thro the distant glimpse of memory's glass!

How sweetly speak the moral voice to youth,

In tones of love, yet eloquence of truth!

But thus not always on the chart of time Glow the light forms of childhood's golden prime; Oft shall the tear of warm regret be shed,

When many a peril past, a tempest fled,

The aged pilgrim sits him down to trace

Some dream of early life, some infant grace,

And oft his bosom heave unbidden sighs

O'er the sad wreck of friendship's severed ties.

And is there here no blest Elysian grove,

Whose golden branches shield the fruits of love? Are all the scenes, which vigorous genius frames, But vain illusions, and ideal names?

Pants but the soul for higher joys to throw

On human ills a visionary woe?

Let narrow prudence boast its groveling art,
To chill the generous sympathies of heart,
Teach to subdue each thought sublimely wild,
And crush, like HEROD, fancy's newborn child;
The cultured mind, which active sense inspires,
For nobler flights shall trim its slumbering fires,
From airy dreams, tho weaved in fiction's loom,
Point virtue's triumph o'er the closing tomb,

For happier climes its destined glory plan,

And lend immortal life to mortal man.

Come then, sweet Friendship, who in HARVARD'S

bowers

With calm enjoyment winged my youthful hours,
Whose cheering power consoles the dying slave,
Recals the sleeping Lazarus from his grave,
In soothest sorcery binds the maniac's cell,
And lulls to peace the monster hags of hell;
Come, and with SOLITUDE's serene employ
Chase every care, and ripen every joy,

Till this distracted heart forget to weep,
Locked in the grave's inviolable sleep.

END OF THE FIRST PART.