And if a friend my grass-grown threshhold find, O how my lonely cot resounds with glee.
Yet, tho' averse to gold in heaps amass'd,
I wish to bless, I languish to bestow;
And tho' no friend to fame's obstrep'rous blast,
Still to her dulcet murmurs not a foe.
Too proud with servile tone to deign address ;
Too mean to think that honors are my due;
Yet should some patron yield my stores to bless,
I sure should deem my boundless thanks were few.
But tell me, thou! that, like a meteor's fire
Shot'st blazing forth, disdaining dull degrees,
Should I to wealth, to fame, to power aspire,
Must I not pass more rugged paths than these?
Must I not groan beneath a guilty load?
Praise him I scorn, and him I love betray?
Does not felonious envy bar the road?
Or falsehood's treach'rous foot beset the way?
Say, should I pass thro' favor's crowded gate,
Must not fair truth inglorious wait behind?
Whilst I approach the glittering scenes of state,
My best companion no admittance find?
Nurs'd in the shades by freedom's lenient care,
Shall I the rigid sway of fortune own?
Taught by the voice of pious truth, prepare
To spurn an altar, and adore a throne?
And when proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes,
And when it leaves me no unshaken friend,
Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads,
Which oaks imbosom, and which hills defend?
O if these ills the price of pow'r advance,
Check not my speed, where social joys invite;
The troubled vision cast a mournful glance,
And, sighing, vanish'd in the shades of night,
In the region of clouds, where the whirlwinds arise,
My castle of fancy was built,
The turrets reflected the blue of the skies,
And the windows with sunbeams were gilt:
The rainbow sometimes in its beautiful state,
Enamell'd the mansion around,
And the figures that fancy in clouds can create,
Supplied me with garden and ground.
I had grottos, and fountains, and orange tree groves, I had all that enchantment has told,
Ihad sweet shady seats for the gods and their lovęs, I had mountains of coral and gold.
But a storm that I felt not, had risen and rolled,
While wrapp'd in a slumber I lay,
And when I wak'd up in the morning, behold,
My castle was carried away.
It passed over rivers, and mountains, and groves,
The world, it was all in my view,
I thought of my friends, of their fates and their loves,
And often, full often, of you.
At length it came over a beautiful scene,
Which nature in silence had made,
The place was but small, but 'twas sweetly serene,
And chequered with sunshine and shade.
I gazed and I envied with painful good will,
And grew tired of my seat in the air,
When all on a sudden my castle stood still,
As if some attraction were there.
Like a bird in the air it came fluttering down,
And plac'd me exactly in view,
And whom should I meet in this charming retreat,
This corner of calmness, but you.
Rejoiced to find you in honor and ease,
felt no more sorrow or pain,
The wind blowing fair, I ascended the breeze,
And went back with my castle again.
MR. COOKE'S ADDRESS ON THE PHILADELPHIA STAGE.
While from Erin remote, where an infant I've play'd,
And remote from the white-clifft Brittania, I roam,
In this freedom-blest clime, where a stranger I've
stray'd,
I have found all the sweets and endearments of home.
I have found truth and friendship ennobling the mind,
In the soul I have found hospitality's glow,
Wit, learning, and taste, brilliant, deep, and refin'd,
With all that from science and virtue can flow.
Nor unjust let me be to the fame of the fair,
To that beauty so radiant that breaks on my sight, Which might light up a smile on the brow of despair, As it sparkles around like the gems of the night.
Such charms have I found in sweet unison join'd, Through the land where my wandering footsteps have led,
From the lofty, whose brows are with honors intwin'd, To the lowly, who tenant the cottage or shed.
But to me here* the choicest of treasures I've found,
That treasure my soul never ceases to prize,
'Tis the plaudits commingling, that generously sound,
From the boxes, the pit, and yon gods in the skies !†
Those plaudits hath gratitude register'd here,
Over which oft shall memory breathe a fond sigh,
And soft sensibility gem with a tear,
As pure as a dewdrop from beauty's moist eye.
* On the Philadelphia stage.
On the tablet of my heart
R 2
Even when towards bright Albion I glide on the gale,
Though terror should rise in his ghastliest form;
Though tempests pursue me and thunders assail,
The remembrance will sooth 'mid the roar of the
But will you?-say ?-will you, when far over sea,
The friends of my youth to revisit I fly,
Will you still in your breasts cherish kindness for me?
And sometimes remember my name with a sigh?
Farewell; generous patrons !-I'm no actor here.§ Reality swells while I bid you adieu !
Long may Hamlets, Othellos, and Richards appear, Of Shakspeare still worthy, and worthy of you.
Waft me, some soft and cooling breeze
To Windsor's shady kind retreat,
Where sylvan scenes, wide spreading trees
Repel the raging dog star's heat.
Where tufted grass and mossy beds
Afford a rural calm repose;
Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,
And fragrant sweets around disclose.
Old oozy Thames that flows fast by,
Along the smiling valley plays;
His glassy surface cheers the eye,
And through the flowery meadows strays.
His fertile banks with herbage green,
His vales with smiling plenty swell,
Where e'er his purer stream is seen,
The gods of health and pleasure dwell.
Let me, thy clear, thy yielding wave;
With naked arm once more divides
In thee, my glowing bosom lave,
And stem thy gently rolling tide.
Lay me, with damask roses crown'd,
Beneath some ozier's dusky shade,
Where water lilies paint the ground,
And bubbling springs refresh the glade.
Let Clarinda too be there,
With azure mantle lightly drest,
Ye nymphs, bind up her silken hair,
Ye zephyrs, fan her panting breast.
O haste away, fair maid, and bring
The muse, the kindly friend to love,
To thee alone the muse shall sing
And warble through the vocal grove.
SONNET, FROM PETRARCH.
Nor stars that roll on high their wand'ring train,
Nor barks that glide along the glassy flood,
Nor warriors, blazing on the tented plain,
Ner deer gay bounding through the gloomy wood,
Nor tidings that delight the longing breast,
Nor dulcet warblings of the love tun'd lyre,
Nor limpid founts, nor meads in verdure drest,
Made vocal by the virgin's beauteous quire,
Nor aught besides my grief-worn heart can priže,
Since she, the light, and mirror of my eyes,
Sleeps in the dust. By speechless woes impell'd,
I call for death, blest bound'ry to my pain,
Still panting to behold those charms again,
Which, ah! 'twere best I never had beheld!
THE JOY OF GRIEF.
Sweet the hour of tribulation,
When the heart can freely sigh;
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