Old legend tells, on Ida's hill,
With winged Hermes for their guide,
Erst to the Phrygian shepherd's will
Contending Goddesses applied,
And, urging eagerly their suit,

Tho' with each boon of Heaven endued,
O'erjoyed with the vicissitude,

Sought from his hand the golden fruit.
Should you, like these, awhile forego
The surer triumphs of your eyes,
Thro' curiosity to know,

If aught of ancient taste remains
Among us simple village swains,
And from our verdict seek the prize;
Boldly with an applauding voice
Should we decide, nor fear, lest Age,
Or miserable Envy's rage,

Might deem us biass'd in our choice:
Each snarling censor we defy
Whose honest judgement truth ensures
Against that idle calumny,

That, with a Venus' person caught,
Minerva's wit we little sought
When either claim confirms it yours.
Alas, in such untutor'd plains,
Ill can these rustic fingers hold
A lyre, attemper'd to the strains
In which immortal Chaulieu told

Of Turenne snatch'd from Victory's arms,
Of Bethune's wisdom, Bouillon's charms,
And Steinkerque's memorable day;
Indeed, like Orpheus' magic song
His drew no listening brutes along,
But in a light and polish'd age,

Which Science loved to call her own,
When from the height of Louis' throne
She darted forth her broadest ray,
Beside the winding banks of Seine,
Where blooms Parisian elegance,
He wove th' Epicurean page ;
Superior to the frowns of Chance,
Tho' Time had silver'd o'er his head,
The myrtle groves, the trim parterres
And fragrant jasmine walks between,
He tun'd his charming shell, while cares,
And the wan forms of sorrow fled,
Soothing his audience with the flames
Of mighty chiefs and courtly dames.

How shall this hoarse and scrannel flute, Regarded only by my flocks,

That listening browse yon thymy rocks,
To such high stop its ditties suit,
As Harriet's self may deign to hear?
All hopeless I attempt to raise
Strains that could sooth your nicer ear,
And utter in these Runic lays
Accents uncouth, disgustful praise.

Tho' on my mouldering cottage wall,
Perchance with momentary gleam,
Some Muse's kindlier influence fall;
On the glad augury, in vain,
My too aspiring soul relies,
And at your feet presents the strain,
Th' inexorable Power denies
Expressions worthy of my theme.

ODE TO JUSTICE.

BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.

ETERNAL Justice, first and best
Of all the Virtues! Thou whose ear
Is ever open to the Oppressed:
O Thou! whom purple Tyrants fear;
And trembling 'midst the gorgeous feast,
See high-suspended o'er their head
Thy outstretched arm, and ensigns dread,
And that huge beam aloft pourtrayed
By which their secret crimes are weighed,
Balanced in thy even scale;

Scanned by thy all-searching eye
The arts of Falsehood nought avail,
Or secret Fraud, or bold Impiety!
Slow to revenge, yet sure! Ere long
Thy judgments shall repay the wrong;

The impious in their mad career o'ertake,

And bid within their breasts the scorpion conscience wake.

Clad with the triple lightning's force,

'Midst heaven's resplendent archives stored, Pavilioned in thick darkness sleeps thy sword;

Which oft cherubic Ardors bright

Bathe in cerulean founts of light,

Or on the blade with reverence gaze;

When flashing strong the empyrean blaze,

It leaps in terror forth, and wings its destined course;

And marked with many a sign of woe,
Deals around its fated blow :

Unseen by mortal eye, thy hand
Bids it travel through the land,
And mow down nations at a sweep,
Whene'er to appease the Almighty's ire,
The fierce Destroyer walks in fire;
And heard in awful accents deep,
Thy voice proclaims the vengeance nigh,

The fixed decree of Jove, and mandate of the sky.

In vain beneath the sheltering robe

Of darkness, Vice her form atrocious veils,

Or walks, with forehead unabashed the globe: "Tis thine, to mark her close disguise,

With keen observant glance to trace

The varying features of her face,

(Which Falsehood's mask but ill conceals) And with prompt speed the sorceress chase

Through all her tortuous paths, and foul obliquities.

Immersed in tenfold shades of night,

The assassin hears thee knocking at his heart ;
Transfixed by fell Remorse's dart,

Inward upon himself his eyes

He turns: exploring by thy light,
The guilty stains of scarlet hue,
That glare portentous on his view,

While conscious fears his soul affright;

And storms of wrath and indignation dread,

Seem ready to displode, irruptive, on his head.

Yet oft', in their preposterous mood

The impious triumph; while they dream
Of acts nefarious that defy

The sovereignty that sways the sky,
That thou dost nothing deem,

And with their taunts insult the good:

Inflated with presumptuous pride
The lingering thunders they deride,
And mock at him whose upright thought
But meditates the thing it ought:
Indulging their insensate hope,

On thy strong buckler's bosses wide
They rush regardless; bold to dare
Thy terrors, and provoke the war,
As if their feeble arm could cope
With power supernal. Heaven surveys
With scorn the vauntings of the unjust;
And with the breath of her displeasure lays
Their trophies in the dust.

Daughter of sempiternal Jove,
Divine ASTREA! Blest is he
By no vain hopes or fears misled,
Who dares in thy firm footsteps tread,
And by thy dictates sage approve
Each act, determined to be free:
Lord of the movements of his soul,
Who by no partial views confined,
Bids in diffusive currents roll

Thy liberal gifts that bless mankind;
What though round Merit's lustrous mien
Detraction dart her arrows keen,

And Persecution's monster-brood

Imbrue their victim's steps in blood;

What though awhile thy children mourn

Midst Being's thorny wilds forlorn:

Not always shall the Just complain,

Nor heaven's high will to man be certified in vain.

For lo, thou comest! In mid air,

Thy throne a thousand seraphs bear