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FAR from the busy haunts of men,
Far from the glaring eye of day; Still fancy paints, with nature's pen, Such tints as never can decay.
Hast thou not seen, at ev'ning hour, When Phoebus sunk beneath the main, Reclin'd in some sequester'd bow'r
The village maid, or shepherd swain ?
Hast thou not mark'd them cull with care
And still expressive of the mind
The emblematic gift was found; Whether to mournful thought inclin'd, Or with triumphal gladness crown'd.
Near Avon's banks, a cultur'd spot,
With many a tuft of flowers adorn'd, Was once an aged shepherd's cot,
Who scenes of greater splendour scorn'd.
Three beauteous daughters bless'd his bed,
Once, when still ev'ning veil'd the sky,
And bade the lovely maids draw nigh,
And each select some favour'd flow'r.
The first with radiant splendour charm'd,
The next with love of beauty warm'd,
The third, who mark'd with depth of thought,
The sage awhile in silence view'd
The various choice of flow'rs displayed; And then (with wisdom's gift endu'd) Address'd each beauteous list'ning maid.
"Who chose the tulip's splendid dyes,
Shall own, too late when that decays;
"The rose, though beauteous leaves and sweet
"But she, who, to fair daylight's train,
The ev'ning flower more just preferr'd;
"Ambitious thou! the tulip race
In all life's varied course beware; Caught with sweet pleasure's rosy grace, Do thou its sharper thorns beware.
"Thou prudent still to virtue's lore,
Attend and mark her counsel's sage! She, like thy flow'r has sweets in store, To soothe the ev'ning of thine age.",
He ceas'd-attend the moral strain
BY DR. BERNARD WILSON,
WHOE'ER thou art that thus hath tried
To blast my reputation,
And under colour of disguise,
Appear thou in thy proper shape,
To stab in secret with a tale
Thy malice then must be in vain,