No sympathies like these his soul employ,

-But all is dark within, all furious black despair.

Not so the love-lorn maid,

By too much tenderness betray'd:

Her gentle breast no angry passion fires,

But slighted vows possess, and fainting soft desires.
She yet retains her wonted flame-
All-but in reason, still the same-

Streaming eyes,

Incessant sighs,

Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care,
Point out to Pity's tears the poor distracted fair.
Dead to the world-her fondest wishes cross'd,
She mourns herself thus early lost.

Now sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings,
Now, pensive ruminates unutterable things.
She starts-she flies-who dare so rude
On her sequestrate steps intrude ?-
'Tis he, the Momus of the flighty train-
Merry mischief fills his brain.
Blanket robed, and antic crown'd,
The mimic monarch skips around;

Big with conceit of dignity he smiles,

And plots his frolics quaint, and unsuspected wiles.

Laughter was there-but mark that groan,
Drawn from the inmost soul!

"Give the knife, demons, or the poison'd bowl, To finish miseries equal to your own."

Who is this wretch, with horror wild ?
-'Tis Devotion's ruin'd child-
Sunk in the emphasis of grief,

Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask, relief.

Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd,
Duteous daughter of the skies,
To warm and cheer the human mind,
To make men happy, good, and wise.
To point where sits, in love array'd,
Attentive to each suppliant call,
The God of universal aid,

The God, the Father of us all.

First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene, Till Superstition, fiend of woc,

Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow,

And spread deep shades our view and heaven between. Drawn by her pencil, the Creator stands,

(His beams of mercy thrown aside) With thunder arming his uplifted hands,

And hurling vengeance wide.

Hope, at the frown aghast, yet lingering, flies,

And dash'd on Terror's rocks Faith's best dependence

lies.

But ah! too thick they crowd, too close they throng, Objects of pity and affright!

Spare farther the descriptive song

Nature shudders at the sight

Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale, But o'er the hapless group low drop Compassion's veil,

ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

BY DR. OGILVIE.

HAIL, queen of thought sublime! propitious power, Who o'er th' unbounded waste art joy'd to roam,

Led by the moon, when, at the midnight hour,
Her pale rays tremble through the dusky gloom.
O bear me, goddess, to thy peaceful seat!

Whether to Hecla's cloud-wrapp'd brow convey'd,
Or lodged where mountains screen thy deep retreat,
Or wandering wild through Chili's boundless shade.
Say, rove thy steps o'er Lybia's naked waste?
Or seek some distant solitary shore?
Or on the Andes' topmost mountain placed,
Dost sit, and hear the solemn thunder roar?

Fix'd on some hanging rock's projected brow,
Hear'st thou low murmurs from the distant dome?
Or stray thy feet where pale dejected Woe

Pours her long wail from some lamented tomb ?
Hark! yon deep echo strikes the trembling ear!
See, night's dun curtain wraps the darksome pole!
O'er heaven's blue arch yon rolling worlds appear,
And rouse to solemn thought th' aspiring soul.

O lead my steps, beneath the moon's dim ray,
Where Tadmor stands all desert and alone!
While, from her time-shook towers, the bird of prey
Sounds through the night her long-resounding moan.

Or bear me far to yon dark dismal plain,

Where fell-eyed tigers, all-athirst for blood, Howl to the desert; while the horrid train Roams o'er the wild where once great Babel stood !

That queen of nations! whose superior call

Roused the broad East, and bid her arms destroy ! When warm'd to mirth, let judgment mark her fall, And deep reflection dash the lip of joy.

Short is ambition's gay deceitful dream;

Though wreaths of blooming laurel bind her brow, Calm thought dispels the visionary scheme,

And time's cold breath dissolves the withering bough.

Slow as some miner saps th' aspiring tower,
When working secret with destructive aim;
Unseen, unheard, thus moves the stealing hour,
But works the fall of empire, pomp, and name.
Then let thy pencil mark the traits of man ;

Full in the draught be keen-eyed Hope portray'd: Let fluttering Cupids crowd the growing plan :

Then give one touch and dash it deep with shade. Beneath the plume that flames with glancing rays, Be Care's deep engine on the soul impress'd; Beneath the helmet's keen refulgent blaze,

Let Grief sit pining in the canker'd breast.

Let Love's gay sons, a smiling train, appear,

With beauty pierced-yet heedless of the dart: While closely couched, pale sickening Envy near Whets her fell sting, and points it at the heart.

Perch'd like a raven on some blasted yew,

Let Guilt revolve the thought-distracting sin;
Scared-while her eyes survey th' ethereal blue,
Let Heaven's strong lightning burst the dark within.

Then paint, impending o'er the maddening deep,
That rock, where heart-struck Sappho, vainly brave,
Stood firm of soul; then from the dizzy steep
Impetuous sprung, and dash'd the boiling wave.

Here, wrapp'd in studious thought, let Fancy-rove,
Still prompt to mark Suspicion's secret snare ;

To see where Anguish nips the bloom of Love,
Or trace proud Grandeur to the domes of Care.
Should e'er Ambition's towering hopes inflame,
Let judging Reason draw the veil aside;
Or, fired with envy at some mighty name,
Read o'er the monument that tells-He died.

What are the ensigns of imperial sway?

What all that Fortune's liberal hand has brought?
Teach they the voice to pour a sweeter lay?
Or rouse the soul to more exalted thought?

When bleeds the heart as Genius blooms unknown?
When melts the eye o'er Virtue's mournful bier ?
Not Wealth, but Pity, swells the bursting groan,
Not Power, but whispering Nature, prompts the tear.
Say, gentle mourner, in yon mouldy vault,

Where the worm fattens on some scepter'd brow,
Beneath that roof with sculptured marble fraught,
Why sleeps unmoved the breathless dust below?
Sleeps it more sweetly than the simple swain,
Beneath some mossy turf that rests his head ?
Where the lone widow tells the night her pain,
And eve, with dewy tears, embalms the dead.

The lily, screen'd from every ruder gale,
Courts not the cultured spot where roses spring:
But blows neglected in the peaceful vale,

And scents the zephyr's balmy breathing wing.

The busts of grandeur, and the pomp of power,
Can these bid Sorrow's gushing tears subside?
Can these avail in that tremendous hour,

When Death's cold hand congeals the purple tide?