Dawn to daylight; or, Gleams from the poets of twelve centuries

FRIEND is worth all hazards we can run.
"Poor is the friendless master of a world :
A world in purchase for a friend is gain."
So sung he (angels hear that angel sing!
Angels from friendship gather half their joy.)
So sung Philander, as his friend went round
In the rich ichor, in the generous blood

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's the wine of life; but friendship new

FRIENDSHIP.

(Not such was his) is neither strong nor pure.
Oh, for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,
And elevating spirit of a friend,

For twenty Summers ripening by my side,
All feculence of falsehood long thrown down;
All social virtues rising in his soul,

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,
High-flavoured bliss for Gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how lost!-Philander is no more.

Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my song?
Am I too warm? Too warm I cannot be.

I loved him much, but now I love him more.
Like birds, whose beauties languish, half concealed,
Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes
Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold:
How blessings brighten as they take their flight!

Sleep.

IRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays

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,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs and dying gales;

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed;

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

ODE TO EVENING.

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight
path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless
hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!

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
Prepare thy shadowy car;

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
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,

Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smil

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H me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,

To think how modest worth neglected lies;
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise,-
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize :
Lend me thy clarion, Goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies;
Such as I oft have chauncèd to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village marked with little spire,
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name,
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;

They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Awed by the power of this relentless dame;
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stowe ;

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