THE HAPPY MAN.

(IN IMITATION OF TEIE ABOVE.Y

ÍJappy the man, whose rural sħade

Is scated near some verdant hills; Where gurgling streamlets gently glide

In !impid rills.

Whose farm, compos’d' of fruitful fields;

Sequester'd grots and lonely caves, By bis own cultivation yields

What nature craves:

Blest, who in sweet devotion spends

The fleeting tenor of his days; Who morir begins and evening ends

With heav'nly praise.

Content if Fortune smile or frown,

He sleeps in undisturb'd repose : In unfeign'd grief, who feels his own

In other's woes.

Thus, far from rancour, noise or strife,

Would heaven grant my fond desire, I'd lead a solitary life,

And thus expire.

THE PASSIONS.

AN ODE.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her niagic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, rais’d, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir’d,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd lay, And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

Ev'n at the sound himself had made,

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried ! and the strings,

With woeful measure wan Despair.

Low sullen sounds his grief beguild, A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild,

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure; Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all the song;

And when her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every

close, And Hope enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her gol

den hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose,

And threw his blood-stain’d sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause

between,
Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still be kept his wild, unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting

from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,

Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call’d og

Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Palo Melancholy sat retir'd,
And from her wild sequester'd seat,
În notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure

stole

Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,
I hollow, murmurs died away.

But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Chearfulņess, a nymph of healthiest huc, ,

Her bow across her shoulder fiung,

Her buskins gem'd with morning due,
Blue an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, .

The hunter's call to Fawn and Dryad known;
The oak-crown’d sisters with their chaste-ey'd

queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green ;
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen

spear,

Last came Joy's extatic trial,
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,
But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought, who heard the

strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel danceing,

While as his flying fingers kiss’d the strings,