SONNET

ΤΟ

THE MUSE.

O, thou, in every form by Fancy drawn,
Still at my pillow, when descends the dawn;
Still round my head, in blissful visions roll,
Thou breath divine-thou seraph of my soul.

I saw thee distant, even in infant years,

When Life's sad morn commenc'd in clouds and tears; When sorrow's tide o'erwhelm'd parental worth,

And stern Affliction press'd us to the earth.

To thee 'twas given, to bring the lyre the lay,
That sooth'd Depression's long and lingering day;
In Gratitude's dear voice, I own 'twas given,
To form within my breast-
t-a little Heaven!

Still bring celestial guest, thy hours of glee,
Till hence in thy blest home, I visit thee!

A

And more, to me, the morning brings,
From Worlds unknown on Cherub wings;
The Muse that loves her welcome seat,
Partakes with thee of Reason's treat:
Not she, the Maid, of Latian line,
That silent seeks th' inflaming vine;
A baneful season's blighted fruit,
Can bid her borrow'd voice be mute.

What though Riot's torches gay,
Glare and dare the eye of Day,

And Dissipation's vot'ries laugh,

Awhile defy intruding Care:

With maniac roar, as down they quaff,

The draught that gives the sick'ning stare.

What is it? but the transient bliss,

That brings the worse than serpent hiss ;

Reflection's heart-corroding train,

And all the sequent host of Penury and Pain.

To thee unknown the noisy joy,
Unlike thee, for thou lov'st to bring,
Th' assuaging cup from Reason's spring;

"Tis thine to comfort, not to cloy,

"Tis thine to cherish, not destroy :

The honey'd stream is thine that flows without a sting.

Dear Fair, through Life's uneven day,

(A thorny path by ills o'erspread)

"Twas thine to clear its tangl'd way,

And plant the placid Primrose in their stead.

And though to cheer Depression's child,
No generous chief, no Grafton* smil'd,
No Moira that, with virtuous voice,
Would wish to bid a world rejoice;
Nor led the lov'd, the good Glencairn,
Gay Hope to Cambria's genial bairn;
Yet, thine to sooth his sunless doom,
Thou star serene in gather'd gloom.

To thee blest Temperance I bend,
Thy altars let me still attend,
My ONLY PATRON, earliest friend;

* A perusal of the lives of our cotemporary and humbly-born Bards-Burns, Dermody, and Bloomfield. A tuneful trio composed of natives of each of the United Kingdons, will explain

Without thy guiding precepts plain,

Without thy smile the sweetest strain,

The Muse's hallow'd voice had all been vain ; Cling source of blessings closer to my heart,

And never, never, while on earth depart.

this allusion to these truly noble, and beneficent characters-Patrons of their Compatriot Poets.