Po Oy Et Pe heey, [505 
The artificial phantoms of delight ; 
Nor let his early ign’rance, and mistake, 
The sober bliss of age and reason shake. 
Hide from his heart each suff’ ring country’s woe, | 
And o’er its chains thy cov’ring mantle throw ; 
Hide yon deluded agonizing train, 
Who bleed by thousands on the purple plain ; 
Their piercing cries, their dying groans controul, 
And lock up all the feelings of his soul. 
Shield him from slander’s persecuting race, 
Who seek to wound, and Jabour to disgrace, 
Who view the humblest worth with jealous eye, 
The viper brood of black malignity ! 
So shall, perchance, content with thee return, 
?Mongst vernal sweets to raise his wintry urn; 
To his retreat tranquillity repair, 
<© And freedom dwell a pensive hermit there.” 
O! in retirement may he rest at last, 
The present, calm, forgotten all the past 
Beside the babbling brook at twilight’s close, 
Taste the soft solace of the mind’s repose ; 
List the lorn nightingale’s impressive lay, 
‘That soothes the evening of retiring May, 
When the young moon her paly flag displays, 
~ And o’er the stream the panting zephyr strays ; 
No heedless hours recall’d, no festive roar, 
That once deluded, but can please no more ; 
No wild emotions bid his comforts cease, 
Or from his cottage drive the angel peace ; 
Nor vain ambition tempt his thoughts anew, 
But still preserve the friendship of the few ; 
Still, still preserve the fond domestic smile, 
Of her, whose voice can ev’ry care beguile ; 
With meek philosophy his hours employ, 
Or thrilling Poetry’s delicious joy ; 
And from the faded promises of youth, 
Retain the love of liberty and truth. 
SONNET. 
Sacred to the Memory of Penelope. By Sir Brook Boothby, Bart. 
HOUGH since my date of woe long years have roll’d, 
Darkness ne’er draws the curtains round my head, 
Nor orient morning opes her eyes of gold, 
But grief pursues my walks, or haunts my bed. 
Visions, in sleep, their tristful shapes unfold ; 
Show Misery living, Hope and Pleasure dead, 
Pale 
