Beneath its bloom when summer smil’d,
  How oft the rural train
The lingering hours with tales beguil’d,
  Or danc’d to Colin’s strain.

And, when Aurora with the dawn
  Dispell’d the midnight shade,
Her flocks to the accustom’d lawn
  Would lovely Phillis lead.

Delusive grandeur never wreath’d
  Around Contentment’s head,
’Till war its flaming sword unsheath’d,
  And wide destruction spread.

The daemon, rising from afar,
  His thunders loudly roll: 
And, dreadful in his blazing car,
  He shakes the shrinking soul.

His foaming coursers onward bend,
  And falling empires moan;
One piercing cry the heavens ascend,
  One universal groan!

At length, my cottage (memory’s tear
  Must here its tribute pay)
Was crush’d beneath the victor’s spear,
  And war’s oppressive sway.

And what avail’d the tears, the woe
  Of peace—­the hamlet’s pride: 
She fell beneath the monster’s blow,
  And in oblivion died!

Adieu! ye shades, adieu! ye groves,
  Now buried in your fall: 
Where’er my eye bewilder’d roves,
  Tis desolation all!

SONNET.

Ye fates! who sternly point on sorrow’s chart
  The line of pain a wretch must still pursue,
To end the struggles of a bleeding heart,
  And grace the triumph misery owes to you
How poor your pow’r!—­where fortitude, serene,
  But smiling views the glimmering taper shine;
Time soon shall dim, and close the wearied scene,
  Bestowing solace e’en on woes like mine. 
Ah! stop your course—­too long I’ve felt your chain,
  Too long the feeble influence of its pow’r;
The heir of grief may fall in love with pain,
  And worst-misfortune feel the tranquil hour. 
Hail, fortitude! blest friend life’s ills to brave,
All misery boasts, shall wither in the grave!

REFLECTIONS OF A POET,

ON BEING INVITED TO A GREAT DINNER.

Great epoch in the history of bards! 
  Important day to those who woo the nine;
Better than fame, are visitation cards,
  And heaven on earth, at a great house to dine.

O cruel memory! do not conjure up
  The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook;
Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup,
  And on her virtues, begg’d I’d write a book.

Rest, goddess, from all broils!  I bless thy name
  Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on! 
I’d give thee all I have, my slice of fame,
  If thou, dear shade! could’st give one slice of mutton.

Yet hold—­ten minutes more, and I am blest;
  Fly quick, ye seconds; quick ye moments, fly: 
Soon shall I put my hunger to the test,
  And all the host of miseries defy.

Thrice is he arm’d, who hath his dinner first,
  For well-fed valor always fights the best;
And tho’ he may of over-eating burst,
  His life is happy, and his death is blest.