Who from a wreck built up thy bark again,

And sent thee proudly on a golden voyage,

From whence return'd thou saw'st thy helping friend, Saw'st thy preserver struggling with the storm,

And left him to the billow

Nature come!

Come with thy flow'ry herbs and healing balms,
And bring along more than Lethean streams,
To cure a wound like this-Hail woods profound,
That shield the Poet from his thankless friend!

And thou, O MUSE! too long deserted maid,
Yet in full crouds remember'd-ah, accept
Again thy truant votary; deign to tune
Once more his lyre, and arm it with new sounds
To soothe his mind disorder'd, fit to taste

The

gay, the solemn, through fair nature's works,

Welcome all These, and ev'n the deep'ning din
Of echoing cannon from the neighbouring port,
And of yon drum obtrusive, for it sounds

To guard my native land and these fair scenes
From nature's direst foe, abhorrent war!

But far more welcome ev'n than these fair scenes,
Or the lov'd MUSE herself the greeting look
Of rural FRIENDS!-for still the joy supreme
Of social man must spring from human kind!

And yon poor almsman living on the gate
He scarce can open to the passenger,
Into whose well-remember'd cap of serge
My Poet purse has each returning year
Drop't its scant mite, and blest it as it fell,-
Speaks in the silent language of his smile,
To see me once again, more near my heart,
And in the deepen'd wrinkle that I trace

In his sunk cheek since last I bade farewell
Than all the sounds of Nature's minstrelsy
Which have mine ear regal'd in this green walk,
Or all the blossoms which the sun has pour'd
To charm mine eye, into the lap of May,

THRICE welcome then, my FRIENDS! for ye can

give

Fresh perfume to the rose: Ah, whether placed

In spacious halls beneath the sculptur'd soof,
Or the small cottage, where the ivy climbs

The wall of clay, ev'n to the idle moss

And useful houseleek on the broken thatch,

A recollection, equal fond and true

Await my village favourites, to prove

They are the sovereigns of the scene!* theirs,

MAJOR JOHN SCOTT has a feat at Bromley; and while Friendship, pure from the ordeal, marked by indefatigable,

The high prerogatives of scepter'd man,
And all things else, bird, beast, stream, herb,
Subordinate; reflected from their power,

As the sun's ray lends lustre to the moon.

O! let me haste to yonder rustick seat
Which circles the huge trunk of that old oak
Upon the furzy heath, where memory flies
Back to the hour, when, in my boyish time
I sat and listen'd to the voice of Truth,
Reason and Wit, and polish'd Elegance,
Breath'd from the lips of one, who aptly join'd
The Sage's wisdom, with the Poet's lore,*

perhaps by unexampled diligence in the moft arduous cause that ever engaged the attention of men, explaining and defending it almost alone against a host for many years even the cause of WARREN HASTINGS-of whom you have long since possessed my opinion, and it is now the opinion of the greatest part of mankind-while SUCH a friendship is held sacred amongst us, the conduct of this gentleman will be precious-even had his efforts ultimately failed as much as they have succeeded.

MAJOR SCOTT has recently added to his name that of WARING, to which is annexed a spacious residence, and ample possessions; but, wherever he and his family remove, as benevolence will certainly form part of the household, it is to be hoped, gratitude will follow.

* Doctor HAWKESWORTH, on whose beautiful and various literature it will be amongst my delights in reserve, to

My Tutor and my Friend, and skill'd alike
To move the fancy, and to mend the heart.
'Twas to this bench we oft repaired; yon spire
We oft have view'd together-now, alas!

It marks the church-yard where his reliques lie:
There will I speed, and bending o'er the sod,
Breathe from my grateful soul the prayer which oft
That soul has pour'd on HAWKESWORTH'S undeck'd
grave!

Hail social Joy! and welcome social Grief! And these sweet scenes where both alternate woo The tender heart.

O! what again shall draw me from these bounds Where, with blest Nature, Peace and Pleasure reign, With flow'rs and fragrance crown'd!-What sound is that?

Hark! 'tis the MAIL-HORN's interesting note

My eager step pursues it, passes quick

The meads, the shades, unheeded-presses on
To hear, tidings of thee, Agenor good,

expatiate when we meet ;-an Author, who, to as much of the strength of our Johnson as was either useful or agreeable, added the sweetness and amenity in which that great writer was deficient and the same distinction marked their man

,ners as men.

:

Left in the world divided from thyself,

Thy dearer self: or, else, perchance, of thee
Unfortunate Cleone: or thou, Friend,

Whose annual promise soon should be fulfill'd,
My youth's first Mentor. Yes, there is a lure,
Stronger than verdure's magick, or the charm
Of feathered choristers, or rural scenes,
Or happy maidens, or aught happy else-
The potent spell that draws me to the spot
Where those I love are sorrowing-Shades adieu !

Without entering farther into the description of the favourite little fpot, which has furnished my muse with these flight touches of her pencil, I shall just note, that, in the year 955, one of our early monarchs, Edgar, is said to have presented the manor to the bishops of Rochester, who have still a palace here; that, on the episcopal ground, a mineral spring of the quality of the Tunbridge waters invites the valetudinarians-but invites in vain-being too near home--I mean the metropolis-home-for any body, but a few stray patients whom the doctors force to the fountain, and whom business, or finances, limit to the nearest remedies.