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And destined all the treasure thero
'Tis Providence alone secures
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.
Ab why, since oceans, rivers, streams
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations;
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away
A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now, Impelld through regions dense and rare
By all the winds that blow.
Ordaind perhaps ere summer flies,
Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop ! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
Phæbus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,
With equal grace below.
A COMPARISON. The lapse of time and rivers is the same, Both speed their journey with a restless stream ; The silent pace, with which they steal away, No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay: Alike irrevocable both when past, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. Though each resemble each in every party A difference strikes at length the musing heart; Streams never flow in vain ; where streams abound, How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd! But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
SWEET stream, that winds through yonder
[glade, Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng ; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon
her destined course ; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes, Pure bosom'd as that watery glass, And heaven reflected in her face.
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
From temper-flaws unsightly.
What favour then not yet possess'd
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire ?
None here is happy but in part:
Full bliss is bliss divine;
And doubtless one in thine.
That wish, on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild,
I wish it all fulfill'd.
PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.
I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau
It chanced then on a winter's day,
i It was one of the whimsical speculations of this phila sopher, that all fables, which ascribe reason and speech to animals, should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceivei by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?