SONG OF ZEPHYRUS.

WHEN sportive hours lead on the rosy spring,
Then in the frolic smiling train I come;
And wander with the bee on sylphid wing,
To kiss each floweret in its tender bloom.
And at the fragrant time, the close of day,
Or at the sweet and pensive moonlight hour,
Then in the summer air I love to play,

And sport with Flora in the dewy bower.
Oft o'er the harp of winds with gentle sigh,
I breathe a mellow note, a mournful lay;
And then enraptur'd with the melody,

I list with pleasure till the sounds decay.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF LORD

NELSON.

WHILE British hearts with noble ardour glow,
Warm with the genuine spirit of the brave;

Ah! still a grateful tear of joy must flow,
The sacred tribute o'er a hero's grave.

Oh! yes, a sweet enthusiastic tear

Shall tremble in the generous Briton's eye;

And own with melting energy sincere,
A Nelson's worth, a country's liberty.

The mournful muse shall consecrate his name
With all the inspiration of the lyre;
And loyal bosoms, kindling at his fame,
Shall glory in the patriotic fire!

And o'er the tomb that holds his sacred dust Shall glory weave the brightest laurel crown; While in the noble records of the just,

His name shall live in virtue's fair renown.

HOLIDAY HOURS.

INSCRIBED TO MY BROTHER CLAUDE.

DEAR boy, let us think of the pleasures in spring, When the season is welcomed with garlands of

flowers;

How thy moments will fly with delight on the wing, How thy fancy will dwell on the holiday hours.

And sweet are those moments the young bosom knows,

Preceding the social endearments of home; Where maternal affection so tenderly glows,

And invokes the gay holiday pleasures to come.

And oh! my sweet boy, when our years shall ex

pand,

When we wander no more through our favour

ite bowers;

Perhaps we may sigh for the pleasures so bland, The sportive delights of the holiday hours.

SONNET

TO THE MUSE OF PITY.

OH! mistress of the melancholy song,
I love to bend before thy sacred shrine;
To thee my fondest earliest vows belong,

For pity's melting tenderness is thine,
Thine is the harp of wild expressive tone,

"Tis thine to touch it with entrancing art; Till all thy numbers vibrate on the heart. And sympathy delights thy power to own. Oh! sweetest muse of pity and of love,

In artless song thy plaintive lyre I hail; Be mine to weep with thee o'er sorrow's tale, And oft thy pleasing visions may I prove. "Thou mistress of the melancholy song, "To thee my fondest early vows belong."

THE SONG OF A SERAPH.

"Hark! they whisper, angels say, "Sister spirit! come away!"

Lo! the dream of life is o'er;
Pain the christian's lot no more!
Kindred spirit! rise with me,
Thine the meed of victory.

Now the angel-songs I hear,
Dying softly on the ear;
Spirit, rise! to thee is given,

The light ethereal wing of heaven.

Now no more shall virtue faint,
Happy spirit of the saint;

Thine the halo of the skies,

Thine the seraph's paradise.

POPE.

SONNET,

TO MY MOTHER.

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers, free from art;
The lays inspir'd by gratitude and truth,

For thou wilt prize th' effusion of the heart. Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,

To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; With soothing tenderness to chase the tear, With fond endearments to impart relief. Be mine thy warm affection to repay

With duteous love in thy declining hours; My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, Perennial roses to adorn thy way:

Still may thy grateful children round thee smile, Their pleasing care affection shall beguile.

THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP.

WHEN youthful transport led the hours,
And all my way was bright with flowers,
Ah! then, my harp, thy dulcet note,
To songs of joy would lightly float;