'Tis for thy eagle mind to tower Triumphant on the wing of Fame; To dash the idiot brow of Power, And waft the Hero's laurelled name; To sketch the full immortal scene, Each mental and each pictured view; Meandering Charles embowered in green, The warrior's turf impearled with dew; The hapless maid whose plighted truth, Dishonoured by a felon-grave. Where the red hunter chased his prey, Such are the themes, thou minstrel blest! Thine be the chief, whose deeds sublime Shall through the world's wide mansion beam, Unsullied by the breath of Time, Exhaustless as his native stream. Divine Menander, strike the string; The deeds of godlike heroes sing, And be the palm of Genius thine! MENANDER TO PHILENIA. THE HE star, that paves the blue serene, Courts from the sun that lucid mien, Which gems the glittering mine of heaven: The breeze, that spreads its Cassia wing, Thus too, Philenia, muse supreme, Thus, from thy lyre, Menander's ear The song-inspired vibration caught; Thus, from thy hand, his temples wear A wreath, which thou alone hast wrought. To thee his muse aspired with pride, True merit shines with native light, Obscurest shades ne'er cloud its blaze; For, diamond like, it gilds the night, And dazzles with unborrowed rays. Hence, with a zeal of equal flame, The world has with Philenia vied, While Admiration winged her fame, And modest Merit blushed to hide. But, ah, thy lavish praise forbear! To me no charms of verse belong; When thy "lorn pathos" fills the gale, And Werter lulls his griefs to sleep. You check the frenzied passion's scope, And, radiant as an angel form, Smile on the death-carved urn of Hope. Thy magick tears leave Slander mute, And every willow on thy lute, Has proved a laurel for thy brow. SONNET TO PHILENIA, ON A STANZA, IN HER ADDRESS TO MYRA The Stanza, which suggested this Sonnet, is highly encomiastick on Mr. Paine. It is here given from the Massachusetts Magazine of Feb. 1798. THY "Since first Affliction's dreary frown "Gloomed the bright summer of my days, "Ne'er has my bankrupt bosom known "A solace, like his peerless praise." "bosom bankrupt !"-fair Peru divine Of every mental gem, that e'er has shone, In dazzled Fancy's intellectual mine, Or ever spangled Virtue's radiant zone. Thy "bosom bankrupt !"-Nature, sooner far, Thy "bosom bankrupt !"—Ah, those sorrows cease, Which taught us, how to weep, and how admire ; The tear, that falls to soothe thy wounded peace, With rapture glistens o'er thy matchless lyre. THE COUNTRY GIRL TO MENANDER, YES! 'twas thy numbers, sailing on the breeze, That taught me how to love, and how t'admire, Nor to a younger vot'ry ever lend'st A single warbling note of love, or praise, Though sought, though urged, in ev'ry ardent gaze. |