Trembling with joy, a while she stood,
And felt the sun's enlivening ray;
Drank from the skies the vital flood,
And wondered at her plumage gay,

And balanced oft her broidered wings, Through fields of air prepared to sail; Then on her venturous journey springs, And floats along the rising gale.

Go, child of pleasure, range the fields; Share all the joys that spring can give; Partake what bounteous summer yields,. And live, while yet 'tis thine to live!

Go, sip the rose's fragrant dew,

The lily's honeyed cup explore; From flower to flower the search renew, And rifle all the woodbine's store!

And let me trace thy vagrant flight, Thy moments, too, of short repose; And mark thee then, with fresh delight, Thy golden pinions ope and close.

But, hark! - whilst thus I musing stand,
Swells on the gale an airy note;
And, breathing from a viewless band,
Soft, silvery notes around me float.

They cease; but still a voice I hear,-
A whispered voice of hope and joy!—
Thy hour of rest approaches near;
Prepare thee, mortal, thou must die!

66

"Shall the poor worm that shocks thy sight,The humblest form in nature's train,

Thus rise in new-born lustre bright

And yet the emblem teach in vain ?

"Ah! where were once her golden eyes,
Her beauteous wings of purple pride?
Concealed beneath a rude disguise,
A shapeless mass, to earth allied.

"Like thee the hapless reptile lived; Like thee he toiled, like thee he spun ; Like thine his closing hour arrived;

His labors ceased, his web was done.

"And shalt thou, numbered with the dead,
No happier state of being know?
And shall no future morrow shed
On thee a beam of brighter glow?

"Is this the bound of power divine,
To animate an insect frame?
Or shall not He who moulded thine
Wake at his will the vital flame?

"Go, mortal, in thy reptile state, Enough to know to thee is given;

Go, and the joyful truth repeat,

Frail child of earth,— high heir of heaven."

LESSON LXVIII.

To the Comet of 1811. HOGG.

How lovely is this wildered scene,
As twilight from her vaults so blue
Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green,
To sleep embalmed in midnight dew!

All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky! And thou, mysterious guest of night, Dread traveller of immensity!

Stranger of heaven! I bid thee hail!
Shred from the pall of glory riven,
That flashest in celestial gale,

Broad pennon of the King of Heaven!

Art thou the flag of woe and death,
From angel's ensign-staff unfurled ?
Art thou the standard of his wrath,
Waved o'er a sordid, sinful world ?

No; from that pure, pellucid beam,

That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, No latent evil we can deem,

Bright herald of the eternal throne !

Whate'er portends thy front of fire,
Thy streaming locks so lovely pale,-
Or peace to man, or judgments dire,
Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail!

Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?
Why sought these polar paths again,
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the wain ?

And when thou scal'st the milky way,
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue!

O, on thy rapid prow to glide!

To sail the boundless skies with thee, And plough the twinkling stars aside, Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea!

To brush the embers from the sun,
The icicles from off the pole ;
Then far to other systems run,

Where other moons and planets roll!

Stranger of heaven! O, let thine eye
Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream;
Eccentric as thy course on high,
And airy as thine ambient beam!

And long, long may thy silver ray
Our northern arch at eve adorn;

Then, wheeling to the east away,
Light the gray portals of the morn!

LESSON LXIX.

A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months. HOOD.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)
Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air-
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,

Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny-
(Another tumble; that's his precious nose!)