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The Minstrel.

He envies not the power of kings,

With all their glitt'ring toys;
The tones that warble from his strings,

Impart sublimer joys.
He builds a world of airy bliss,

Where love erects his throne;
And though his fancy frame the kiss,

Its sweets are all his own.

What though no wealth his song repays,

Nor laurels deck his lyre ;
The glow he catches from its lays,

Is bliss supremely higher.
What though his fairy pleasures seem

Illusion's shapeless toys-
He would not lose so sweet a dream,

For all your waking joys.


The Flowers of Life.


The ills of Life's journey how many complain of,

Who swear not a flow'ret is found in the road! But the evils they censure I laugh at the pain of,

While sweet smiling Cheerfulness lightens the load.

Though I find not a rose, I indulge not in sorrow,

But pluck with Contentment a daisy to-day; Nay, even a sprig will feed Hope for the morrow,

The humblest that nods to the zephyr of May.

Let others dispute, I'll avoid their dissention,

Religious, political, moral, or such ; For the lily of Peace thus escapes their attention, And the sweet bud of Pleasure which blooms at my


The blossom of Friendship, surviving mortality,

I'll carefully cherish and wear in my breast; Though its picture may boast brighter hues than reality,

Its fragrance directs me when doubtful the test.

The spirit of feeling, the soul of affection,

Wildly ardent in rapture, and melting in wo, Whatever its image, attire, or complexion,

With mine shall commingle in sympathy's glow.

The Flowers of Life.

I ask not his birth-place, whatever the region,

Hot, temperate, frigid—despotic or free; I ask not his politics, creed or religion,

A Turk, Jew, or Christian-he's still dear to me.

But ah! there's a flower which, tho' teeming with nectar,

Beneath its fair aspect screen's Misery's dart, So artfully veil'd that it mocks a detecter,

Till press’d to the bosom it pierces the heart.

But still to a bosom susceptibly placid,

The anguish of Love will but heighten its joy; As the bev'rage uniting a sweet with an acid

Is grateful, when nectar untemper'd would cloy. The bramble of Avarice others may nourish,

Exhausting Life's soil of its virtues and strength; I'll stray where the plants of Beneficence flourish,

And the generous vine winds its serpentine length.

Let misers pursue their mean sordid employment,

And hoard up their treasures for life's latest scenes ; I'll waste not the moments allow'd for enjoyment,

Nor squander the season in gaining the means.

Our object is happiness-ne'er could we miss it,

In life’s varied path, if the talent were ours From all we encounter some good to elicit,

As bees gather sweets from the meanest of flowers.

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Then pluck every blossom of Happiness blooming;

Leave birds of contention and play with the dove; And our path, soon the flush of enchantment assuming,

Will glow an Elysium of Pleasure and Love.


'Tis pleasant, when the world is still,

And EVENING's mantle shrouds the vale,
To hear the pensive whip-poor-will

Pour her deep notes along the dale ;
While through the self-taught rustic's flute

Wild warblings wake upon the gale,
And from each thicket, marsh, and tree,
The cricket, frog, and Katy-dee,
With various notes assist the glee,

Nor once through all the night are mute.

The streamlet murmurs o'er its bed,

The wanton zephyrs kiss its breast,
Bid the green bulrush bend its head,

And sigh through groves in foliage dress'd;
While Cynthia, from her silver horn,
Throws magic sbades o’er EVENING's vest;


Sheds smiles upon the brow of Night,
Not dazzling, like Day's shower of light,
But soft as dew, which mocks the sight

Till seen to sparkle on the thorn.

'Tis then the hour for sober thought,

To leave this little world behind; To traverse paths which Newton taught, And rove the boundless realms of mind

; Till Pride reluctant lifts the mask,

And shows the boasting mortal blind ;
Then the warm soul, intent to stray,
Would joyful shake its clogs away,
And, bursting from its bonds of clay,

Pursue its glad, progressive task.


While Folly's shrine attracts the fair,
Blame not the beaux who worship there;
If gods for you took meaner shapes,
No wonder we descend to apes ;
Let Beauty smile on WORTH alone,
And fops and fools will not be known.

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