Their flocks a-field the shepherds lead,
That browse the springing dewy blade;
While o'er the meadows free and gay
The steerlings butt in frolic play,
Their vacant dams are feeding by,
The milky treasure to supply;
And light-foot kids erratic spring
In many a wild convolving ring.

The Thracian warbler* 'mid the trees
With all a mother's transport sees
Her young the new-fledg'd wing display,
And wondering flit from spray to spray:
She scans their beauties o'er and o'er,
New beauties ripening every hour;
And, as their short low warblings rise,
Love thrills her heart and lights her eyes;
Pleas'd every lovely trace to find,
She recognizes all her kind;
Sleeks every feather with delight,
And turns them to the orient light;
While all around, a gleeful throng.
The birds loud raise the mingling song,
And, chanting clear from spray to spray,
Salute the God of Light and Day.
The sailor to the swelling gale
Wide expands the rustling sail;
On the rock's protruded side,
Scoop'd and hollow'd by the tide,
With baited hook and line in hand,
The patient fisher takes his stand;
The tug just felt, the trembling line
Bespeaks the prey-quick at the sign

* Philomela, the Nightingale. See Ovid's Metamorphoses.

His well-experienced skill he plics,
And flings ashore the flouncing prize.
Such tranquil joys the man attend
Whom Innocence and Worth befriend;
Whose wish Ambition ne'er has drove
Beyond his small domain to rove.
The plough, the fold, give all he needs,
And what amuses, clothes and feeds;
While love and duty grace his board,
And bless with smiles their rural lord.
But joys like these they ne'er attain
Who grasp for power or ill-won gain
Amid the City's impious noise,
Where racking hope and fear annoys.
Sleepless, by Disappointment cross'd,
Or Apprehension's tempest toss'd,
Some, heedless of Enjoyment's hour,
Hang on the hollow smiles of power;
Cringe, vilely servile, to the Great,
And crowd the deaf proud gates of State;
And some with endless toil and pain
Pant, scramble, grasp, and squeeze for gain;
Brood o'er the mammon with insatiate gaze,
their vitals preys.

While gnawing want upon

Puff'd with the breath of vague acclaim,

One glories in capricious Fame;
Of fickle, empty plaudits proud,
He hails elate the shouting crowd:
Another, fierce in wordy war,
With venal thunder shakes the Bar;
Or right or wrong, his zeal the same,
The fee, not justice, is his aim.

How few in calm secure repose
Enjoy content what Heaven bestows;
And knowing they cannot Time re-bring,
Leap up and ride upon his wing.

Bask in the sun while it is day,
Live, and live happy, while you may;
For days and years successive roll,
And life still hastens to the goal.

The Sisters ply their fatal trade,
Nor ever backward trace the thread;
But mortals run with headlong haste
To meet the fate by which they're chas'd;
And madly of their own accord
Rush on the hated Stygian ford.
O great Alcides! lur'd astray

By Glory's over-ardent ray,
Too eagerly you speed to tread
The dismal mansions of the dead!
Soon comes the day the Fates ordain,
And none may Death's fell hand restrain;
None may the fatal lot put by-
The urn is shook, and out they fly.
Let others burn to shine afar
In Grandeur's proud triumphal car;
Let others boast a deathless name,
And the loud voice of babbling Fame
To distant lands and ages roll,

And sound their praise from pole to pole,
Till, claiming kindred with the skies,
Heroes and demi-gods they rise:
But may some humble rustic shed
From strife and envy shield my head.
Where, safe in my obscure retreat,
In peace th' awards of Heav'n I'll wait.
For hoary age by slow degrees
Steals on the scenes of quiet ease;
And poverty's small fortune's sure,
In snug humility secure;

While he who climbs ambition's height,
But falls with aggravated weight.

R. JAMIESON.

ODE TO SLEEP.

BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.

O Tnou, whose light touch sheds the opiate dews
Of bland Oblivion; theu whose power

Man's wearied, drooping frame renews,
Oft as thou deignst thy influence shower
On my closed lids, lead me, O shadowy Queen,
To fairy regions, and some blissful clime
Elysian; picturing the unreal scene

In Fancy's gorgeous garb and imagery sublime:
And bring from out thy magic cell

That potent, necromantic spell,

Which holds the soul in wonder's trance,
While pass thy airy train successive by,
Rolling along the visioned ecstacy
To rapt Attention's glance:

Oft' has the Bard whom genius warms,
Who marks at eve thy spectre-forms,
Won from thy magic stores divine
The colouring of his simple line;
And o'er the page the Muses own
Rays of poetic glory thrown;

And sketched the high-wrought scenes, and bade them

glow,

In radiant hues of light, and Fiction's solemn show.

But far, far greater boast was thine
When Inspiration led thy band;
When not with fond illusions vain,
Such as the idle brain

Alarm, with prodigy and dire portent,

Thou cam'st; but which when Wisdom's self beheld, Rightly she augured what thy visions meant,

Shadowed in doubtful hues by some immortal hand;
When breathing mystic truths divine,

Full many a seer and prophet thou hast taught,
And from the Almighty brought

Behests of dread command, and import high;
While the rapt mind's judging eye

In cloudless perspective the Future caught:
Nor seldom God or Angel held

Converse with man; the midnight hour
Illumined shone with glory's ray,

And coruscations of eternal day

Waved, queen of silence! o'er thy darksome bower;
Heaven oped her golden portals wide,

And far within her glittering courts were spied
The angelic phalanx robed in vestments bright*,
To earth descending slow from yon fair worlds of light.

And still thy gracious forms await

The good man on the verge of fate;

When this world and the next between,

The Beatific Vision to the sight

Unfolding, opens heaven: then floods the scene,
In boundless bliss absorbed, and deluges of light.
Thou canst the heart of Guilt appal;

Thy voice, O awful Sleep, has power

To wake the dead at midnight hour,

Obedient to thy potent call:

And tyrants oft' have heard with dread

The cry of vengeance thundering in their ear,

While the pale spectre Fear

Hangs her dire portents round the regal bed,

* Genesis, ch. xxviii. ver. 12,