DIRECTIONS FOR A TEA VASE.

BY DR. DARWIN.

FRIEND BOLTON! take these ingots fine,
From rich Potosi's sparkling mine;
With your nice art a Tea Vase mould,
Your art! more valued than the gold!
And where proud Radbourne's turrets rise,
To bright Eliza send the prize.
I'll have no serpents round it kiss
The foaming wave, and seem to hiss
No Naiads weep, no Sphynxes stare,
No tail-hung Dolphins high in air.
Let wreathes of myrtle round the rim,
And twisting rose-buds form the brim.
Each side let woodbine stalks descend,
And form the handles as they bend;
While at the foot a Cupid stands,

;

And twines the wreathes with both his hands.

Perch'd on the rising lid above,

Oh! place a love-lorn turtle-dove,
With hanging wing, and ruffled plume,
And gasping beak, and eye of gloom.
Last, lest the swelling vases shine
With siver white, and burnish fine;
Bright as the font whose banks beside
Narcissus gaz'd, and lov'd, and died.

Vase! when Eliza deigns to pour
With snow-white hand thy boiling shower,
And sweetly talks, and smiles, and sips
Thy fragrant stream with ruby lips;

More charms thy polish'd front shall shew,

Than ever Titian's pencil drew;

More than his chisel soft unfurl'd,

Whose Heaven-wrought statue charms the world.

SONG.

FIE, Damon, fie! no more pursue me,
But, if you love, avow your flame;
For, if you love, you'll ne'er undo me,
Nor trifle with my heart and fame.

In vain, fond youth, you thus implore me;
I see through your delusive feint,
That, while you swear how you adore me,
You'd make a sinner of a saint!

You, in soft strains and fond addresses,
Of me a deity have made;
And yet, with impious bold caresses,
Your goddess you would fain degrade.

But, till you bring a priest to bind me,
I, goddess-like, will bear the sway;
In hymen's bands you'll woman find me,
Then, Love and Damon I'll obey.

RUNIC ODE.

THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR.

BY C. LEFTLY, ESQ.

SON of Angrym, warrior bold,
Stay thy travel o'er the wold;
Stop, Havardur, stop thy steed;
Thy death, thy bloody death's decreed.
She, Coronzon's lovely maid,

Whom thy wizzard wiles betray'd;
Glides along the darken'd coast,
A frantic, pale, unshrouded ghost.
Where the fisher dries his net,
Rebelling waves her body beat;
Seduc'd by thee, she toss'd her form
To the wild fury of the storm.

Know, thou feeble child of dust,
Odin's brave, and Odin's just;
From the Golden Hall I come
To pronounce thy fatal doom;
Never shalt thou pass the scull
Of rich metheglin deep and full:
Late I left the giant throng,
Yelling loud thy funeral song;
Imprecating deep and dread,
Curses on thy guilty head.
Soon, with Lok, thy tortur'd soul,
Must in boiling billows roll;

Till the God's eternal light,
Bursts athwart thy gloom of night;
Till Surtur gallops from afar,
To burn this breathing world of war.
Bold to brave the spear of death,
Heroes hurry o'er the heath:
Hasten to the smoking feast—
Welcome every helmet guest,
Listen hymns of sweet renown,
Battles by thy fathers won;
Frame thy face in wreathed smiles,
Mirth the moodiest mind beguiles.-
Yet I hover always nigh,

Bid thee think,-and bid thee sigh;
Yet I goad thy rankled breast;—
Never, never, shalt thou rest.

What avails thy bossy shield?

What the guard thy gauntlets yield?
What the morion on thy brow?
Or the hauberk's rings below?
If to live in aguish fear,

Danger always threatening near:
Lift on high thy biting mace,
See him glaring in thy face;
Turn-yet meet him, madd'ning, fly,
Curse thy coward soul, and die.
Not upon the field of fight,
Hela seals thy lips in night;
A brother of infernal brood,

Bathes him in thy heart's hot blood;
Twice two hundred vassals bend,
Hail him as their guardian friend;
Mock thee, writhing with the wound,
Bid thee bite the dusty ground;

Leave thee suffering, scorn'd, alone,
To die unpitied and unknown.
Be thy naked carcase strew'd,
To give the famish'd eagles food;
Sea-mews screaming on the shore,
Dip their beaks, and drink thy gore.
Be thy fiend-fir'd spirit borne,
Where the slaves of sorrow mourn;
Wreck'd upon the fiery tide,
An age of agony abide.

But soft, the morning-bell beats one,
The glow-worm fades; and, see, the sun
Flashes his torch behind
yon hill.

At night, when wearied nature's still,
And horror stalks along the plain,
Remember-we must meet again.

INSCRIPTION FOR A BOWER.

THOU, whom the sacred love of sweet repose,
From the vexatious cares of busy life
Hath won, with confidence approach this Bower!
Abstracted from the follies, guilt, and woes,

That haunt too oft the crouded scene of strife, Here may'st thou pass the calm, the blameless hour, While dripping rocks their limpid stores distil; And with a gentle, soul-composing sound,

Into the vale descends the murmuring rill;

And birds their blended song pour thro' the shades

around,

DROMORL

HAFIZ.