p's matchless love shall shine,
(To hearts like ours so dear!)
There angels own its pow'r divine;
Its native home is there!

For here below, tho' friendship's charm
Its soft delights display;
Yet souls like ours, so touch'd, so warm,
Still pant for brighter day!

_Phila. Repos._, I, Appendix (Nov. 15, 1800-Nov. 7, 1801), Phila.

[The above appeared in the Musical Appendix.]

ORIGINAL POETRY.
LYCAS; OR THE INVENTIONS OF GARDENS.
Attempted from the Idyls of Gessner.

The stormy winter drives us from the green,
Nor leaves a flower to decorate the scene;
The winds arise--with sweep impetuous blow,
And whirl around the flakes of fleecy snow;
Yet shall imagination fondly rise
And gather fair ideas as she flies:
The images that blooming spring pourtrays,
The sweets that bask in summer's sultry rays,
The rich and varied fruits of autumn's reign
Shall ope their treasures, in a bounteous train;
Of these the best, with choicest care display'd,
Shall form a wreath, for thee, my lovely maid!
So the fond shepherd, for his darling fair,
Culls beauteous flowers to deck her flowing hair.
The garden's rise shall grace my humble strains;
If Daphne smiles 'twill well repay my pains!
'Twas, in the morn of youth, a shepherd found
This happy art to decorate the ground;
This is the spot, the enamour'd Lycas cries,
Lycas the young, the gentle and the wise;
Under this elm, fair Adelaide first gave
The kiss of love to her devoted slave!
Whilst he, in am'rous accents told his flame,
With beating heart and agitated frame!
Here faint and weak my charmer sank to rest,
On the warm pillow of my panting breast!
"Lycas," with interrupting sobs, she said,
"Take the soft secret of an am'rous maid:
Of all the swains that strive this heart to move,
'Tis Lycas only Adelaide can love!
Ye peaceful groves--ye solitary springs--
To you I oft confess'd my secret stings!
And ye, sweet flowers bear witness to the truth
Of the soft flame that prey'd upon my youth;
Oft have your leaves that round me clust'ring grew,
Drank my warm tears as drops of morning dew."
My heart is full--what transport is my own!
For, in my bosom, love has fixed his throne.
Sacred to love this spot shall ever stand
Deck