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'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,
And peerless beauties could not save
The brave, heroick, victim-youth,

Dishonoured by a felon-grave.

Where the red hunter chased his prey,
The hand of culturing Science reigns;
Where forests arched the brow of day,
The temple lights its glittering vanes.

Such are the themes, thou minstrel blest!
That to thy classick lyre belong,
While Genius fires thy passioned breast
With all the eloquence of song.

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;
With all thy sun-like splendour shine;

The deeds of godlike heroes sing,

And be the palm of Genius thine!

MENANDER TO PHILENIA.

THE

HE star, that paves the blue serene,
Or sparkles on the brow of even,

Courts from the sun that lucid mien,

Which gems the glittering mine of heaven:

The breeze, that spreads its Cassia wing,
Perfumes the breath of scentless air
From rich bouquets, which jocund Spring
Selects from Nature's gay parterre :

Thus too, Philenia, muse supreme,
Whose clear, reflecting pages shine,
Like the translucent, crystal stream,
The mirror of a soul divine;

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,
And sealed her carol with thy name,
Whose signet gave, what Heaven denied,
A passport at the door of Fame.

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!
'Twere madness to believe it due;
For none, but Nature's fondest care,
Deserves a glance of Fame from you.

To me no charms of verse belong;
The tints of every classick grace,
Mild Contemplation, nurse of song,
Beamed from thy muse-illumined face.

When thy "lorn pathos" fills the gale,
Wild Fancy learns of Truth to weep,
Romance forgets her tragick tale,

And Werter lulls his griefs to sleep.

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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,
They melt the Stoick heart of snow;

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,
Shall roll, exhausted, flowerless springs away;
Leave the broad eye of noon, without a ray,
And strip the path to heaven of every star.

Thy "bosom bankrupt !"—Ah, those sorrows cease,

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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.
Ind and Golconda, in one firm combined,
Shall sooner bankrupt, than Philenia's mind.

THE COUNTRY GIRL TO MENANDER,

YES! 'twas thy numbers, sailing on the breeze,
Floating in rich luxuriance, 'mongst the trees,
That caught my ear, as heedlessly I strayed,
O'er the soft velvet of the verdant glade.
'Twas thy own trembling lyre, I knew it well,
That gave the magick spring, the glowing swell;
That, borne on wings seraphick, glided by,
And filled my soul, with richest melody.
Oft, have I heard thy rapturous, treasured strains,
When roving careless, 'midst the dewy plains;
Oft, has thy well known lay joyed my rapt soul,
When sunk unnoticed, 'neath the rising knoll;
Whilst catching from afar the golden note,
I've bid my praises, on the zephyrs float.
Amid thick woods, and close embowering shades,
Stupendous rocks, and verdant flowery glades,
I've heard thy matchless, thy resistless strains,
Whilst lilies spread them o'er the lengthening plains.
To thee unknown, except by kindred fire,

That taught me how to love, and how t'admire,
I've hailed, have sung-and oft have sought to gain
One sweet responsive chord, to my dull strain.
Lost to all thoughts, or cares, for other's lays,
Philenia's brow alone thou crown'st with bays;
To her rich mine a monthly tribute send'st,

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.

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