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Thy slumbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, clashing soft, from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound.

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ;
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best,
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

As I walked by myself, I talked to myself,
And myself replied to me;

And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers, I give to thee.

Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself
Their responses the same should be,
Oh! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself,
Or so much the worse for thee.

What are Riches? Hoarded treasures

May, indeed, thy coffers fill;

Yet, like earth's most fleeting pleasures,
Leave thee poor and heartless still.

What are Pleasures?

When afforded

But by gauds which pass away,
Read their fate in lines recorded
On the sea-sands yesterday.

What is Fashion? Ask of Folly,
She her worth can best express.

What is moping Melancholy?
Go and learn of Idleness.

What is Truth? Too stern a preacher
For the prosperous and the gay!
But a safe and wholesome teacher
In Adversity's dark day.

What is Friendship? If well founded,
Like some beacon's heavenward glow;
If on false pretensions grounded,

Like the treacherous sand below.

What is Love? If earthly only,
Like a meteor of the night;
Shining but to leave more lonely

Hearts that hailed its transient light:

But when calm, refined, and tender,
Purified from passion's stain,
Like the moon, in gentle splendour,
Ruling o'er the peaceful main.

What are Hopes, but gleams of brightness,
Glancing darkest clouds between ?
Or foam-crested waves, whose whiteness
Gladdens ocean's darksome green.

What are Fears? Grim phantoms, throwing
Shadows o'er the pilgrim's way,

Every moment darker growing,

If we yield unto their sway.

What is Mirth? A flash of lightning,
Followed but by deeper gloom.

Patience? More than sunshine brightening

Sorrow's path, and labour's doom.

What is Time? A river flowing
To Eternity's vast sea,
Forward, whither all are rowing,
On its bosom bearing thee.

What is Life? A bubble floating
On that silent, rapid stream;
Few, too few, its progress noting,
Till it bursts, and ends the dream.

What is Death, asunder rending
Every tie we love so well?
But the gate to life unending,
Joy, in heaven! or woe, in hell!

Can these truths, by repetition,
Lose their magnitude or weight?
Estimate thine own condition,

Ere thou pass that fearful gate.

Hast thou heard them oft repeated,
Much may still be left to do:
Be not by profession cheated;

Live

as if thou knewest them true.

As I walked by myself, I talked to myself,
And myself replied to me;

And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers, I've given to thee.
Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself
Their responses the same should be,

Oh! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself,
Or so much the worse for thee.

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.

BY GAY.

FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.

"Tis thus in friendships; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.
A Hare who, in a civil way,
Complied with everything, like Gay,
Was known to all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain :
Her care was never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies.
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ;
She hears the near approach of death :
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round ;
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the Horse appeared in view!
"Let me," says she, "your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship every burden's light."

The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see you thus:
Be comforted, relief is near,

For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately Bull implored ;
And thus replied the mighty lord:
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a favourite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;

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