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Far hence retire, O Night! thy praise,
Already has been sung:
Immortaliz’d by Young.
See, while I speak, Aurora sheds
The springing valleys smile;
And meets th' accustom'd toil.
Day's monarch comes to bless the year!
Along the athereal road
The visit of the God.
Aw'd by the view, my soul reveres
In tuneful order move :
The radiance of thy love.
Hark! the awaken'd grove repays
And echo spreads the strain ;
And music glads the plain.
While nature thus her charms displays,
That op’ning flow'rs diffuse;
Associates of the muse.
Riot and guilt, and wasting care,
Avoid the morning's light:
Who virtue's dictates slight.
Along the mead, and in the wood,
The goddess walks confess'd ;
The wise and gen'rous breast.
Happy the man! whose tranquil mind
And pleas'd the whole surveys;
That measure out his days.
The varying year may shift the scene,
And heav'ns own thunders roll;
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.
Pour, pour again, sweet bard, thy wonted strains,
Soft let them breathe on Sorrow's list’ning ear: For who like thee so tenderly complains,
Stealing from Pity's eye the ready tear!
Resume thy lyre, and with a master's hand
Awake its chords that now neglected lie; Around each lover of the muse shall stand, Bath'd in delicious floods of harmony.
Nor thou refuse this weak, tho' willing lay;
Nor, with contempt, the feeble praise regard Of her, who, as she wanders on her way,
Forms a rude chaplet for her fav'rite bard; Whose melting strains congenial virtue hears, And weeps, and smiles, rejoicing in her tears.
OF THE MANNER OF LIFE OF A CELEBRATED
Written by himself.
I pass the silent rural hour,
The faithful mastiff is my guard,
My cow rewards me all she can, (Brutes leave ingratitude to man ;) She, daily thankful to her lord, Crowns with nectareous sweets my board. Am I diseas'd ;-the cure is known, Her sweeter juices mend my own.
I love my house, and seldom roam,
Do not arraign my want of taste, Or sigh to ken where joys are plac'd. They widely err, who think me blind, And I disclaim a stoic's mind. Like yours are my sensations quite ; I only strive to feel aright. My joys, like streams, glide gently by, Tho'small, their channel never dry; Keep a still, even fruitful wave, And bless the neighb'ring meads they lave.
My fortune (for I'll mention all, And more than you dare tell) is small;