Of the warm sun, and saw about thee sport The frolic herd, the trees, with fruit o'ercharg'd, And all the fertile country blooming round, "My hairs grow grey in peace," were then thy words; "Fields of my youth, be ever, ever blest! "My eyes, grow dim, shall not much longer view "Your heart-delighting scenes, for happier plains "Must I exchange you--plains beyond the skies." Ah, father, best belov'd, must I so soon Lose thee! my nearest friend!--distressing thought! Close to thy tomb, with filial love, I'll raise A modest altar, and with ardour seek Each blest occasion to relieve the woes Of the oppressed and wretched; on each day, That gives the happy chance of doing good, I'll pour sweet milk upon a parent's grave, And strew with flowers the ever sacred spot-- He paus'd but kept his eyes, suffus'd with tears, Fix'd on the good old man; then, sighing; said, How still he lies, and smiles amidst his slumbers! Some of his virtuous deeds must hover o'er, In peaceful dreams, and fill his cheerful soul; Whilst the moon pours her rays upon his bare And shining temples, and his silver beard; Oh may the breeze, and dewy damps of eve-- Do thee no harm. Then gently did he kiss His aged forehead, gently wak'd him up, And led him to his cot, in lighter sleep, On softest furs, to slumber out the night. --P. D. _Port Folio_, I-70, Feb. 28, 1801, Phila. For the Port Folio. MYRTIL AND DAPHNE An Idyl. Attempted from Gessner. MYRTIL. Whither so early sister, ere the sun, Has, from behind yon hill, his course begun? Scarce has the swallow to the morning ray, Ventur'd to modulate his twittering lay. The early cock, whom richest plumes adorn Has yet but faintly hail'd the golden morn; Whilst thou, to some unknown attraction true, With hasty footsteps brush the silv'ry dew! What festival to-day, do you prepare, For fill'd with flowers, your basket scents the air. DAPHNE. Welcome dear brother, whither points thy way, Amidst the chilly damps of early day? On what fair purpose from yon new form'd bower, Hast thou come forth at twilight's silent hour? For me--I've pluck'd the violet and the rose, And sought each flower that round our cottage grows. Whilst o'er our parents gentle slumbers spread Their wings, I'll strew them on their peaceful bed; Then when the sunbeams gild the glowing skies Midst fragrant scents, they'll ope their aged eyes; Their hearts shall then with pious joy rebound, To find the blooming flowers, clust'ring round. MYRTIL.