THE VANITY OF HOPE.

FORLORN is he who trusts to-morrow's fate: The genial sun will rise, but not for him. The fool who revels high in gorgeous state Ne'er sees the frightful face of Mis'ry grim, Or views of bitter woe before him swim. The poet's cottage is her surest seat ; O'er his meek head she flaps her raven wing; Poisons the pittance poor that he must eat; With deadly juice taints the Pierian spring, And bids her spirits lurk beneath each warbling string.

Fair Promise oft may come with smiling face; But trust not, trust not her deceiving wile! Envy perhaps may mar each well-masqued grace, And foul Disdain usurp the pitying smile. O mortal wight! what is thy life but toil; A pilgrimage of woes, a false embrace; A lasting pain where Disappointment rears Her scorpion whip to sting thy gentlest peace; To Innocence shuts close her iron ears,

And from the aching heart each beauteous phantom

tears?

Alert we climb the mountain's rugged brow; And toil to gain the summit, idly vain: At last we find that bliss was left below, And proud Ambition is the sire of Pain. Bright-tressed Transport, and her jocund train, In the deep valley bid their blossoms blow: Struggling Desire the lofty cliff would climb, But foul Derision stands his grinning foe: Awhile he stands; but, lo! in flow'ry prime Mischance will hurl him swift from potency sublime.

Forlorn is he who trusts to-morrow's dawn.
Then let no glitt'ring gauds delude thine eye;
Let Hope's fond rainbow scenery be withdrawn,
And brighter aims recal thy glance on high.
Fulfilment is the daughter of the sky,
Who bids frail doubts and subtleties be gone;
With Destiny she shares her radiant seat,

Placed to the right of the eternal throne :
She can alone make saddest sorrows sweet,
Erase thy sable stains, and make thee all-complete.

THE VISION OF FANCY.

SIR Chanticleer has thrust his red crest high From vetchy bed, and wound his bugle shrill : Night sinks her ebon chariot from the sky, And infant morn peeps blushful o'er the hill. The white-sleev'd mower sweeps with scythed skill, The rosy-featur'd milkmaid loads her pail, The twitt'ring swallow skims the vernal sill, The herald blackbird bids Dan Phoebus hail, And blue-ey'd Pleasure wakes her dryads in the dale.

To mellow flute by lively touch address'd,
And tinkling tabour trip the merry fays;
And wanton wile, shrewd wit, and jocund jest,
With revel quaint, disport ten thousand ways,
All by a stream whose crisped current plays
Melodiously the pebbles smooth among :
Perdye, not minstrelsye of Arthur's days,

Nor elfin tournament, Arcadian throng,

Could nearly vye with sports to this blythe troop belong.

There might the rainbow spread its dyes in vain, And all-abash'd before their glories fade;

For Tyrian hue, or Melibean stain,

Could nought adorn. Bright Fancy, matchless maid,

In filmy pearls her helmet sheen array'd, With lucid eyes of toad her shield emboss'd, Her golden tresses gleaming o'er the shade, Lo, lo! the Empress comes; in wonder lost, My swimming eye-balls dance, and worldly care is lost.

Fast by her side, begirt with buskins green, Her cheeks envermeil'd with the peach's bloom, Hies heav'nly Health: around the luscious scene She looks, and sweetly sprinkles wild perfume; Towards the heath, towards the auburn broom, She leads her well-breath'd terriers: hark! they tell In tuneful notes the villain Reynard's doom; Reynard, who bids his native haunts farewel, While echoing Transport shouts and bursts the vocal dell.

"Hark, hark! to cover," the loud huntsman cries: "Hark, hark! to cover," mimic echoes sound: "Hark, hark!" the copse thro' all its branches sighs, And "hark!" the distant vales with glad rebound.

Aerial music floats o'er all around:

The silver-sliding lapse of ling'ring wave, The cheering shout, the serenading hound, All, all, dispel the spleen, the vapours grave, And rouse the hoary carle from his dismantled cave.

Here too, when Eve, in faery vestments clad, Usurped the cloudless empire of the sky, Weaving the blue serene with shadows sad, Meanwhile the beams from Hesper's brilliant cye Enamell'd the bright tapestry of the sky; Ev'n here, where pointed lustres trembling play, The chequer'd bosom of the lake heav'd high, Would fairest Fancy close the sober day, While night-flow'rs, mildly coy, their pensive sweets display.

How oft, when stretch'd all careless on some bank
Where the brisk stream forsook its flow'ry grave,
Dawning to life, with dews ambrosial dank,
I warbled numbers to each warbling wave,
Numbers that bounteous Nature artless gave!
I heard the silvery alders whisper low,
Poor Philomel in dying dirges rave;

I saw, majestic Queen, thy gorgeous show, And moonlight silent sunk with an unusual glow.