218 poetry. June 13. 
IX. : 
Dear, happy hours! when o’er my raptur’d mind 
The magic scenes of nature burst sublime ; 
And hopelefs, in despair, the muse resign’d 
Her pencil to the rip’ning hand of Time. 
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Scarce lefs her thrilling transports than when now 
Her airy dreams of Pindus fhe pourtrays ; 
While youthful fancy bids the picture glow, 
And scatters o’er it her redundant rays. 
XI. 
Ye pow'rs, divine, while, glorying in his pride, 
The stoic boasts a hgart which nought can move 5 
A flinty heart,—which cold, and yet untried, 
Ne’er felt the glow of friend/hip or of love. 
x1I. 
Give me (what e alone could e’er refuse) 
A soul susceptible of joy and pain ; 
To taste the converse of th’ angelic muse, 
And scorn the arts of pride and usele/s gain. G. C. 
SONNET. 
For the Bee 
Sweet smells the fragrant morn with dew, 
And pearly drops refrefh each flow’r; 
Each creeping fhrub and spreading yew 
Sip the sweet perfume in the bow’r. 
All nature smiles with joy around, 
The sun returns and all is gay 3 
Yet still to man no peace is found, 
His schemes and joys flee fast away. 
Each scene and season he revolves, t 
Is still a mix’d and muddy stream, : 
Still heavy grief his soul difsolves, 
Tho’ peace but seldom darts a gleam. 
Yo thee, O Hope! celestial maid, 
Serene we look for peace above ; 
‘Yo thee, O let my vows be paid, 
Thou art the pow'r of peace and Jove. 
Before thy fhrine the lovers bend, 
The hero pours his panting soul ; 
Xo courts, to huts thy blefsings send, — 
*Tis thou alone supports the soul. NM. 
