The Minstrel. He envies not the power of kings, The tones that warble from his strings, Impart sublimer joys. He builds a world of airy bliss, Where love erects his throne; What though no wealth his song repays, Nor laurels deck his lyre; The glow he catches from its lays, He would not lose so sweet a dream, The Flowers of Life. THE FLOWERS OF LIFE. The ills of LIFE's journey how many complain of, Though I find not a rose, I indulge not in sorrow, Let others dispute, I'll avoid their dissention, For the lily of Peace thus escapes their attention, touch. The blossom of Friendship, surviving mortality, I'll carefully cherish and wear in my breast; Though its picture may boast brighter hues than reality, Its fragrance directs me when doubtful the test. The spirit of feeling, the soul of affection, Wildly ardent in rapture, and melting in wo, Whatever its image, attire, or complexion, With mine shall commingle in sympathy's glow. The Flowers of Life. I ask not his birth-place, whatever the region, I ask not his politics, creed or religion, A Turk, Jew, or Christian-he's still dear to me. But ah! there's a flower which, tho' teeming with nectar, Beneath its fair aspect screen's Misery's dart, So artfully veil'd that it mocks a detecter, Till press'd to the bosom it pierces the heart. But still to a bosom susceptibly placid, The anguish of Love will but heighten its joy; As the bev'rage uniting a sweet with an acid Is grateful, when nectar untemper'd would cloy. The bramble of Avarice others may nourish, Exhausting Life's soil of its virtues and strength; I'll stray where the plants of Beneficence flourish, And the generous vine winds its serpentine length. Let misers pursue their mean sordid employment, And hoard up their treasures for life's latest scenes; I'll waste not the moments allow'd for enjoyment, Nor squander the season in gaining the means. Our object is happiness-ne'er could we miss it, As bees gather sweets from the meanest of flowers. The Flowers of Life- -Evening. Then pluck every blossom of Happiness blooming; Leave birds of contention and play with the dove; And our path, soon the flush of enchantment assuming, Will glow an Elysium of Pleasure and Love. EVENING. 'Tis pleasant, when the world is still, With various notes assist the glee, Nor once through all the night are mute. The streamlet murmurs o'er its bed, Bid the green bulrush bend its head, And sigh through groves in foliage dress'd; While Cynthia, from her silver horn, Throws magic shades o'er EVENING'S vest; Evening. Sheds smiles upon the brow of Night, "Tis then the hour for sober thought, And shows the boasting mortal blind; TO JULIA. While Folly's shrine attracts the fair, |