Poems.

MORNING WALK.

One morn in the soft month of May To the forest my steps I pursu'd ; Wild blossoms hung light on the spray, With pleasure their blushes I view'd.

Sweet buds of the woodland, I cried, Sweet offspring of Nature's repose, Ah ! why your gay charms do ye hide Where the bright beam of Spring never glows ?

Why, why were ye destin'd to bloom In the dark-curtain'd haunts of the grove ; Why waste your nectareous perfume Where none but the breezes e'er rove ?

Oh ! let then my fostering hand To the garden your beauties transplant, There, there will your graces expand, And each raptur'd gazer enchant.

Borne swift on the wings of the gale Methought that a voice thus reply'd­ “Who tempts us to quit the cool vale, For the withering hot-bed of pride ?

Who tempts us the shade to forego For the gay banks where sun-beams shall dart, Where the blessings from Nature that flow Are exchang'd for the lux'ry of Art ?

We allow that the sun-shine is fair, We allow that its region is bright, But ah ! 'twould our graces ensnare, Too soon our gay youth would it blight.

For awhile our all-nectarine breath Would embalm thy dear Mistress's bow'r, But soon should we wither in death, Th' expanse and perfume of an hour.”

And such is the fate, I exclaim'd, Of the beauteous, the young, and the gay ; And thus are the dangers, misnam'd, Of fashion's omnipotent sway.

And thus are the blushes of art Put on by the conquering Maid ; So does she her fragrance impart, And thus does she wither and fade.

Oh ! perish the mischievous hand That transplants the fair rose from the shade That forces its leaves to expand, Then dooms the brief graces to fade.

Sweet emblems of beauty ! bloom on ! Nor fear ye I mean to destroy ; For ah ! when Security's gone, Farewell to the true smiles of Joy.