FRIEND is worth all hazards we can run. Of Bacchus, purple God of joyous wit, A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye. He drank long health and virtue to his friend,— His friend who warmed him more, who more inspired. FRIENDSHIP. (Not such was his) is neither strong nor pure. For twenty Summers ripening by my side, As crystal clear, and smiling as they rise! Here nectar flows; it sparkles in our sight; Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart, Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my song? I loved him much, but now I love him more. Sleep. IRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; Swift on his downy pillow flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. F aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs and dying gales; O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed; Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, ODE TO EVENING. As oft he rises 'midst the twilight Now teach me, maid composed, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail For when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant hours, and elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew; and, . lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smil H me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest worth neglected lies; In every village marked with little spire, They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, |