NOTHING.

"Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men's minds, vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one would,' and the like, but it would leave the minds of a number of men, poor shrunken things, full of melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves?"-BACON.

WHAT wild ambitious schemes
The ripen'd man engage?
To love's delusive dreams
Succeed the plans of age.
The smiles of beauty lose

Their sweet attractive power,

And pleasure vainly woos

The statesman to her bower.

Youth, manhood, and old age, have each their vice, First lust, ambition next, then avarice.

Some mount on high like rockets,

That blaze, then die away;

And folly loves to mock its
Votaries for a day.

Or Juans, or Napoleons, 'tis the same—

The slaves of passion are the fools to fame.

"To-morrow and to-morrow"
Have visionary joys!

Men never think that sorrow

Can rob them of their toys;

Or death-they heedless hear the passing bell;

Where be his fond conceits for whom it tolls a knell ?

Þ

VERSES

WRITTEN IN STONELEIGH PARK.

THE rudest trunk by Nature's hand that's wrought
May teach us more than ever sage has taught:

Ye patriarchal oaks, that mock the span
Of man's existence-(miserable man!)

Ye teach me this, that even in decay

Ye thrive, when the proud mind is worn away.

Ye richly-foliaged woods, that seem but one,
Girding yon uplands with your emerald zone,
Ye tell me there's analogy between

Youth's liveliness, and your most cheerful green.
When the light plays upon your leaves, we glow
With inward joy ourselves; I feel it now.

When sombre shades the brightest hues displace, Steals o'er our hearts their "melancholy grace," 'Tis the bard's golden chain that seems to bind Nature's best energies with those of mind;

For when creation's wonder-works we see,
We feel within us the divinity!

Whence springs this holy feeling? from delight
In looking up to God through works so bright!

Here might Zeluco for a moment feel
(But for a moment) a religious zeal.
Thus Satan gazed on Paradise awhile,
And half forgot his hate, revenge, and guile.

WRITTEN AT ROME.

WE need not fear, in these enlighten'd times,
Hildebrand's power, or Alexander's crimes:
Or that fierce Pope,* unspiritual lord

Of Roman faith, who grasp'd the temporal sword.
But here is Superstition's last strong-hold:
Still here, release from Purgatory's sold;
And here the women, pious in their way,
At noon read Casti,† though at eve they pray :
How eloquent their looks; beneath the lashes
Of their dark eyes the soul of passion flashes!
Alternately they read their prayers, and paint;
Now woo a lover, now invoke a saint!
Such are the Portias, the Cornelias now,
So well is heeded here the marriage vow.

November, 1818.

* Julius II.

says,

CASTI, a profligate writer, author of certain "Novelle," as Forsyth "too excellently wicked."