ODE TO THE RIVER EDEN.

BY DR. J. LANGHORNE.

DElightful Eden! parent stream,
 Yet shall the maids of Memory say,
 When, led by Fancy's fairy dream,
 My young steps trac'd thy winding way;
 How oft along thy mazy shore,
 Where slowly wav'd the willows hoar,
 In pensive thought their poet stray'd;
 Or, dozing near thy meadow'd side,
 Beheld thy dimply waters glide,
 Bright thro' trembling shade. 

Yet shall they paint those scenes again,
 Where once with infant-joy he play'd,
 And bending o'er thy liquid plain,
 The azure worlds below survey'd:
 Led by the rosy-handed hours,
 When Time tript o'er that bank of flowers,
 Which in thy crystal bosom smil'd:
 Tho' old the God, yet light and gay,
 He flung his glass, his scythe away,
 And seem'd himself, a child. 

The poplar tall, that waving near
 Would whisper to thy murmurs free;
 Yet rustling seems to soothe mine ear,
 And trembles when I sigh for thee. 
Yet seated on thy shelving brim,
 Can Fancy see the Naiads trim
 Burnish their green locks in the sun;
 Or at the last lone hour of day,
 To chace the lighty glancing jay,
 In airy circles run. 

But, Fancy, can thy mimic power
 Again those happy moments bring? 
Canst thou restore that golden hour,
 When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing? 
When first in Eden's rosy vale,
 My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,
 The vow sincere, devoid of guile! 
While Delia in her panting breast,
 With sighs, the tender thought supprest,
 And look'd as angels smile. 

O Goddess of the crystal brow,
 That dwell'st the golden meads among;
 Whose streams still fair in memory flow,
 Whose murmurs melodize my song! 
O! yet those gleams of joy display,
 Which brightening glow'd in Fancy's ray,
 When, near thy lucid urn reclin'd,
 The Dryad, Nature, bar'd her breast,
 And left, in naked charms imprest,
 Her image on my mind. 

In vain — the maids of Memory fair
 No more in golden visions play;
 No friendship smooths the brow of care,
 No Delia's smile approves my lay. 
Yet, love and friendship lost to me,
 'Tis yet some joy to think of thee,
 And in thy breast this moral find;
 That life, tho' stain'd with sorrow's showers,
 Shall flow serene, while Virtue pours
 Her sunshine on the mind.