Be these the rural paftimes that attend Great B*nfw*k's leifure: thefe fhall beft unbend His royal mind, whene'er, from state withdrawn, He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; These fhall prolong his Afiatic dream, Tho' Europe's balance trembles on its beam. And thou, Sir William! while thy plaftic hand Creates each wonder,which thy Bard has plann'd; While, as thy art commands, obfequious rife Whate'er can pleafe, or frighten, or surprise, O let that Bard his Knight's protection claim, And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame.

$145. Pleafures of Memory: a Poem. By SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq. hazel at blaz'd TheGipfy's faggot--there we ftood andgaz'd; Gaz'd on her fun-burnt-face with filent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowly brood that on her back the bore, Imps, in the barn with moufing owlet bred, From rifled rooft at nightly revel fed; Whofe dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest fhade,

When in the breeze thediftant watch-dog bay'd: And heroes fled the Sybil's mutter'd call, Whofe elfin prowefs fcal'd the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the filver piece the drew, And trac'd the line of life with fearching view, How throbb'd my fluttering pulfe with hopes and fears,

To learn the colour of my future years!

Ah, then, what honeft triumph flush'd my

breaft!

This truth once known-To blefs is to be bleft! We led the bending beggar on his way; (Bare were his feet, his treffes filver grey) South'd the keen pangs his aged fpirit felt, And on his tale with inute attention dwelt. As in his fcrip we dropt our little store, And wept to think that little was no more, He breath'd his pray'r; "Long may fuch good"nefs live!"

'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. But hark! thro' thofe old firs, with fullen fwell

When not a distant taper's twinkling ray
Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his way;
When not a fheep-bell footh'd his listening ear,
And the big rain-drops told the tempeft near;
Then did his horse the homeward track defcry.
The track that shunn'd his fad enquiring eye;
And win each wavering purpose to relent,
With warmth fo mild, to gently violent,
That his charm'd hand the careless rein refign'd,
And doubts and terrors vanish'd from his mind.
Recall the traveller, whofe alter'd form
Has borne the buffet of the mountain ftorm;
And who will first his fond impatience meet!
His faithful dog's already at his feet!
Yes, tho' the porter fpurn him from his door,
Tho' all, that knew him, know his face no more,
His faithful dog fhall tell his joy to each,
With that mute eloquence which passes speech.
And fee, the mafter but returns to die!
Yet who fhall bid the watchful fervant fly?
The blafts of heaven, the drenching dewsof earth,
The wanton infults of unfeeling mirth;
Thefe,when to guard misfortune's facred grave,
Will firm Fidelity exult to brave.

The wreaths of conqueft, or the vows of love!
Led by what chart, transports the timid dov
Saythro'thecloudswhatcompafs pointsherflight?
Monarchs have gaz'd,and nations bleft the fight.
Pile rocks on rocks,bid woodsandmountainsrife,
Eclipfe her native fhades, her native skies;
'Tis vain! thro' ether's pathlefs wilds the goes,
And lights at last where all her cares repofe.

Sweet bird! thy truth fhall Harlem's walls
And unborn ages confecrate thy nett. [attest,
When with the filent energy of grief,
With looks that afk'd, yet dar'd not hope relief,
Want, with her babes, round generous valour
clung,

To wring the flow furrender from his tongue, 'Twas thine to animate her closing eye: Alas! 'twas thine perchance the firft to die, Crufh'd by her meagre hand, when welcom'd Icom'd from the iky.

The church-clock ftrikes! ye tender scenes fare-
It calls me hence, beneath their shade to trace
The few fond lines that Time may foon efface.
On yon gray tone that frontsthechancel-door.
Worn fmooth by busy feet now feen no more,
Each eve we fhot the marble tho' the ring,
When the heart danc d,and life was in its fpring;

Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

$146. From the Same.

OFT has the aged tenant of the vale

Lean'd on his ftaff to lengthen out the tale; Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breath'd,

From fire to fon with zeal

He,

He, whofe arrefting hand fublimely wrought
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought;
Who from the quarried mafs, like Phidias drew
Forms ever fair, creations ever new!
But as he fondly fnatch'd the wreath of Fame,
The fpectre Poverty unnerv'd his frame.
Cold was her grafp, a withering fcowl fhe wore;
And Hope's foft energies were felt no more.
Yet ftill how fweet the foothings of his art!
From the rude ftone what bright ideas start!
Ev'n now he claims the amaranthine wreath,
With fcenes that glow, with images that breathe!
And whence thefe fcenes, thefe images declare,
Whence but from her who triumphs o'erdefpair?
Awake, arife! with grateful fervour fraught,
Go fpring the mine of elevated thought.
He who thro' Nature's various walk, surveys
The good and fair her faultlefs line pourtrays;
Whole mind, prophan'd by no unhallow'dgueft,
Calls from the crowd the pureft and the beft;
May range, at will, brigh: Fancy's golden clime,
Or mufing, mount where Science fits fublime,
Or wakt the fpirit of departed Time.
Who acts thus wifely, mark the moral muse,
A blooming Eden in his life reviews!
So richly cultur'd ev'ry native grace:
Its feanty limits he forgets to trace:
But the fond fool, when evening fhades the fky,
Turns but to ftart, and gazes but to figh!
The weary wafte, that lengthen'd as he ran,
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a fpan!
Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind,
By truth illumin'd, and by tafte refin'd?
When age has quench'd the eye and clos'dtheear,
Still nerv'd for action in her native fphere,
Ort will the rise-with fearching glance purfue
Some long-lov'd image vanith'd from her view;
Dart thro' the deep receffes of the past,
O'er dufky forms in chains of flumber caft;
With giant-grafp fling back the folds of night,
And fnatch the faithlefs fugitive to light.
So thro' the grove th' impatient mother flies,
Each funiefs glade, each fecret pathway tries;
Till the light leaves the truant-boy difclofe,
Long on the wood-mofs ftretch'd in fweet repofe.

$148. From the Same.

OFT may the fpirits of the dead defcend,
To watch the filent flumbers of a friend;
To hover round his evening-walk unfeen,
And hold fweet converfe on the dusky green;
To hail the spot where firft their friendship grew,
And heaven and nature open'd to their view!
Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and fees
A fmiling circle emulous to please;
There may thefe gentle guefts delight to dwell,
And blefs the fcene they lov'd in life fo well!
O thou! with whom my heart was wont to
[care;
From Reafon's dawn each pleasure and each
With whom, alas! I fondly hop'd to know
The humble walks of happiness below;

fhare

If thy bleft nature now unites above
An angel's pity with a brother's love,
Still o'er my life preferve thy mild controul,
Correct my views, and elevate my foul:
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind,
Devout yet chearful, active yet refign'd;
Grant me,like thee, whofe heart knewnodifguife,
Whose blamelefs withes never aim'd to rife,
To meet the changes Time and Chance prefent,
With modeft dignity and calm content.
When thy laft breath, ere Nature funk to reft,
Thy meek fubmiflion to thy God exprefs'd;
When thy laft look, ere thought and feeling fied,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph flied;
What to thy foul its glad affurance gave,
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The fweet Remembrance of unblemish'd youth,
The infpiring voice of Innocence and Truth!

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustlefs mine
From age to age unnumber'd treasures fhine!
Thought and her fhadowy brood thy call obey,
And Place and Time are fubject to thy fway!
Thy pleafures moft we feel when moft alone;
The only pleafures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's fummer-vifions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obfcure the sky;
If but a beam of fober Reafon play,
Lo, Fancy's fairy froft-work melts away!
But can the wiles of Art, the grafp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-fpent hour?
Thefe,when the trembling fpirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a ftream of living light;
And gild thofe pure and perfect realins of reft,
Where Virtue triumphs, and her fons are blest.

$149. Verfes on a Tear. From the Same. OH! that the Chemist's magic art

Could cryftallize this facred treasure!
Long thould it glitter near my heart,
A fecret fource of penfive pleasure.
The little brilliant ere it fell,

Its luftre caught from Chloe's eye;
Then trembling, left its coral cell-
The fpring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light,
In thee the rays of Virtue fhine;
Than any gem that gilds the mine."
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Benign restorer of the foul!
Who ever fly it to bring relief,

When first the feels the rude controul

Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.
The fage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'ft in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reafon's philofophic page.
That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its fource,
That law preferves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their courfe.