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On best or worst which they and Nature give?
The beetle loves his unpretending track,

The snail the house he carries on his back;
The far-fetched worm with pleasure would disown
The bed we give him, though of softest down;
A noble instinct; in all kinds the same,
All ranks! What Sovereign, worthy of the name,
If doomed to breathe against his lawful will
An element that flatters him

-to kill,

But would rejoice to barter outward show
For the least boon that freedom can bestow?

But most the Bard is true to inborn right,
Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night,
Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch
For the dear blessings of a lowly couch,
A natural meal,-days, months, from Nature's hand;
Time, place, and business, all at his command!
Who bends to happier duties, who more wise,
Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize
Above all grandeur a pure life uncrossed
By cares in which simplicity is lost?

That life, the flowery path that winds by stealth,
Which Horace needed for his spirit's health;
Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome
By noise and strife, and questions wearisome,
And the vain splendors of Imperial Rome? ---
Let easy mirth his social hours inspire,
And fiction animate his sportive lyre,
Attuned to verse that, crowning light Distress


With garlands, cheats her into happiness;
Give me the humblest note of those sad strains
Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains,
As a chance sunbeam from his memory fell
Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well;
Or when the prattle of Blandusia's spring
Haunted his ear, he only listening,
He proud to please, above all rivals, fit
To win the palm of gayety and wit;
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread,
Shrinking from each new favor to be shed,
By the world's Ruler, on his honored head!

In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Such earnest longings and regrets as keen Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade; A doleful bower for penitential song,

Where Man and Muse complained of mutual wrong; While Cam's ideal current glided by,

And antique towers nodded their foreheads high,
Citadels dear to studious privacy.

But Fortune, who had long been used to sport
With this tried Servant of a thankless Court,
Relenting met his wishes; and to you
The remnant of his days at least was true;
You, whom, though long deserted, he loved best;
You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest!

Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim

On the humanities of peaceful fame,

Enter betimes with more than martial fire

The generous course, aspire, and still aspire;
Upheld by warnings heeded not too late,

Stifle the contradictions of their fate,

And to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike mate!

Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow; With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind The ethereal eyesight, cramp the wingèd mind! Then, with a blessing granted from above To every act, word, thought, and look of love, Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page.*


*There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realized: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her.

Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, namely, quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal.



Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths, as moved with one desire,
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,

Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers, or a richer produce (did it suit
The season), sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.

But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought? Is the string touched in prelude to a lay Of pretty fancies that would round him play When all the world acknowledged elfin sway? Or does it suit our humor to commend Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show Bright colors whether they deceive or no?

*The small wild Geranium known by that name.

Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,

Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised,
And such as lift their foreheads overprized,
Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy
This child of Nature's own humility,
What recompense is kept in store or left
For all that seem neglected or bereft ;
With what nice care equivalents are given;
How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.
MARCH, 1840.




THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;

That cheek,

That lip,

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a kindling of the morn,

a rose-bud from the thorn,

I saw; and Fancy sped

To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,

Of bliss that grows without a care,

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