Then sportive sparrows round the roses play, And sing, delighted, from the bending spray! Ye butterflies, arrayed in coats of gold, On beds of roses fluttering revels hold! Here rest, upon the lily's waving stalk, And add new beauty to the evening walk. Then shall the shepherd passing, free from care, When zephyr spreads the perfumes thro' the air, Inhale the fragrance, and with transport cry, What hallow'd place is this? what goddess nigh? Does Venus own this gay, enchanted place? Or has Diana, wearied in the chace, Chosen a spot where choicest sweets abound, To slumber on the consecrated ground? P. D. Port Folio, I-54, Feb. 14 1801, Phila. [S. Gessner, _Lycas, oder die Erfindung der Gärten_.] For the Port Folio. MYRTILLO. An idyl, attempted from the German of Gessner. At peaceful eve, Myrtillo sought the lake, Whilst the moon's beams upon its bosom played; The silent tract, illumin'd by its rays, The nightingale's enchanting tender note, Had held him bound in rapture's soothing trance. At length, arous'd, he homeward took his steps, And in the verdant bower, where clust'ring vines Before his lonely dwelling formed a porch Of simple structure, deeply slumbering found His venerable parent--his grey head Supported by his arm, while through the leaves The moon-beams pour'd their lustre on his face. With arms enfolded, and with swelling heart, He stood before his father--long he stood, His pious eyes fix'd fondly on the sage, Then rais'd them, swimming with his filial tears, And thro' the illumin'd leaves look'd up to heaven, Whilst grateful drops roll'd down his moisten'd cheek. Oh thou! at length he cried, whom, next the gods, I reverence, my father--ah, how soft Thy peaceful slumbers! Of the just and good How placid is the sleep! Thy tottering steps Were, doubtless, hither bent, in silent prayer To spend the hour of eve; but, at thy task Of duty, slumber seiz'd thee, whilst, for me, Thy prayer of love was wing'd into the skies, How happy is my lot! the fav'ring gods Must hear thy fond petition; else, why stands Our cot secure, amid the branches, bent With ripening fruit? why, else, such blessings shower'd Upon our healthy, fast increasing herd? Upon the golden produce of our fields? When oft the tear of joy bedew'd thy cheek, To see me, anxious, cherish and support Thy feeble age; when, towards the vault of heaven, You turn'd your swimming eyes, and blest your son; Ah! then, what words his blessings could express! My bosom swell'd with transport, and the tears O'erflow'd my glowing cheeks-- When yester morn, reclining on my arm, You left our cot to feel the quickening beams