"Tis not to sit, and con a theme,
Or in a smooth, pellucid stream,

Thy rueful phiz behold:
And when the lunar light has spread
A yellow radiance o'er thy head,

To catch poetic gold.
Whate'er the cynic may pretend,
Money, a means, but not an end,

Is happiness below.
Oh! for a mine of gold to give,
To live, and to make others live,

And clear the world of woe.

To bless unseen, unseen descend
On with’ring hearts that want a friend,

Like dew-drops from above.
And oft both seen and felt to pour,
In one abundant Jove-like show'r,

And fill the lap of love.

For sharper suff'rings than thy own, 'Tis thine, O Penury, to groan,

Stretch'd on the rack of life. Thy cradled child unconscious sleeps, But woe for her who wakes and weeps,

The mother and the wife.

O fortune come, and crown my fate,
Wafted along in winning state

Like Egypt's queen of old:
When frequent dash'd the silver oars,
And silken sails perfum'd the shores,

And Cydnus burn'd with gold.

To youth, and industry, and health,
She comes, the sov’reign good of wealth,

And ev'ry blessing bears :
But to enjoy her golden mean
It must be felt, it must be seen,
And save it from

your

heirs.

INSCRIPTION

For an Autumnal Bouquet of Field-Flowers and

BY T. PARK, ESQ.

To Flora, gay nymph, and to corn-loving Ceres,

This harvest-home tribute we gratefully twine; On their brows then fast bind it, ye tutelar Lares,

And Winter shall weave a green chaplet for thine.

Here rye lightly mingles with barley grown sere,

And oats that, pale-waving, o'ersilver'd the ground; While each wheat-sheaf was robb’d of its weightiest ear,

I'or the wild growing floret that blossom’d around.

Twine blue-bells with poppies, that outblush'd Aurora,

And king-cups fresh gather'd, while pearly with dew: Then take it, O Ceres! and take it, O Flors ! The garland of Nature may grace even you.

THE WAR-SONG OF PRUSSIA*.

Multa dies variique labor mutabilis ævi
Rettulit in melius-multos alterna revisens
Lusit, & in solido rursus Fortuna locavit.

VIRGIL

I.

WHERE is now the warrior's breast?

Where is now the heart of flame?
Sleeps it still in torpid rest,

Careless of Prussia's ancient name?
No, soldiers, no! to arms we go,

To bathe our red-right hands in blood;
The dastard slave shall find a grave,

Scorn'd by the generous and the good,
Who basely turns his coward feet to fly,
Nor knows in such a cause to triumph or to die !

II.

Yes, we will still repel the foe,

Still stem the vile Usurper's sway ;
The wretch, whom yesterday laid low,

May conquer yet another day!

* Written (alas! too evidently) previous to the fatal battle of Friedland,

Else what remain ?--The galling chain,

The scoff of pride and bitter scorn,
A blasted fame, eternal shame,

Our freedom lost, our laurels torn,
And still, ere life its hated load resign,
To tug the tedious oar, or dig the slavish mine!

III.

By our hapless country's call,

By Berlin's insulted King,
By the scornful smiles of Gaul,
Scorn that tortures, smiles that sting!
By all our foes; and, O! by those

Who in their country's cause have shed
In many a flood their dearest blood,

Buried in Glory's crimson bed:
By mighty Frederick's soul-inspiring name,
By all our former worth, and all our present shame!

IV.

Tremble, vile Usurper ! hide

Thy guilty head in dunnest night;
Soon shalt thou feel the fall of pride

When slave and freeman meet in fight!
Tho’ far and near, in front au rear,

Thy locust ranks enhost thee round,
Some gen'rous dart, thy venom'd heart,

If weary Heav'n permit, shall wound;
War's iron rule, Death's funeral scream shall cease,
And Europe smile secure beneath the plume of peace!

SOBRINO.

TO A TITLED DESTROYER.

" What's property ? dear Swift! you see it alter
From me to you,

from you to Peter Walter;
Or in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share;
Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir ;
Or, in pure equity (the case not clear)
The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year.
At best it falls to some ungracicus son,
Who cries, “ My father's damn’d, and all's my own.”
Shades that to Bacon could retreat afford,
Become the portion of a booby Lord !”

POPE.

Thou ruthless destroyer, whose impious hand

Has levell’d the bowers so belov'd by the Nine, For this deed shall thy name lasting infamy brand,

Shall curses how deep, and how bitter, be thine! When laugh earth and heaven in their glories array'd,

To thy jaundic'd eyes may the landscape still seem Involv'd in a mournful and menacing shade;

Nor of joy, nor of hope, feel thy bosom a gleam. In thine ear, clos’d for ever to choirs of the

grove, May the ominous bird croak from evening 'till morn; In crowds, shunn'd like pestilence, lone may'st thou

rove, Pursued by the laugh and the whisper of scorn.