Here, Stanley, rest, escap'd this mortal strife, above the joys, beyond the woes of life. Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain, and sternly try thee with a year of pain: no more sweet patience, feighing oft relief, lights thy sick eye, to cheat a parent's grief: with tender art, to save her anxious groȧn', no more thy bosom presses down 'it's own: now well-earn'd peace is thine, and bliss sincere: our's be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!

O, born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm, to shew us virtue in her fairest form; ne b to shew us artless reason's moral reign, what boastful science arrogates in vain; th' obedient passions knowing each their part; calm light the head, and harmony the heart!

Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey, when a few suns have roll'd their cares away, tir'd with vain life, will close the willing eye: 't is the great birth-right of mankind to die. Blest be the bark! that wafts us to the shore, where death-divided friends shall part no more: to join thee there, here with thy dust repose, is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.

SONG.

Unless with my Amanda blest,

in vain I twine the woodbine bower;
unless to deck her sweeter breast,
in vain I rear the breathing flower:
Awaken'd by the genial year,

in vain the birds around me sing;
in vain the freshening fields appear:
without my love there is no spring.

HYMN ON SOLITUDE. Hail, mildly pleasing solitude, companion of the wise and good, but, from whose holy, piercing eye, the herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh how I love with thee to walk, and listen to thy whisper'd talk, which innocence and truth imparts, and melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease, and still in every shape you please. Now wrapt in some mysterious dream, a lone philosopher you seem; now quick from hill to vale you fly, and now you sweep the vaulted sky, a shepherd next, you haunt the plain, and warble forth your oaten strain. A lover now, with all the grace of that sweet passion in your face: then, calm'd to friendship, you assume the gentle looking Harford's bloom, as, with her Musidora, she

(her Musidora fond of thee) amid the long withdrawing vale, awakes the rival'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn, just as the dew-bent rose is born; and while meridian fervors beat, thine is the woodland dumb retreat; but chief, when evening scenes decay, and the faint landskip swims away, thine is the doubtful soft decline, and that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train,
the virtues of the sage, and swain;
plain innocence in white array'd,' ili
before thee lifts her fearless-head:
religion's beams around thee shine,
and cheer thy glooms with light divine:
about thee sports sweet liberty;
and wrapt Urania sings to thee.

་་

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!
and in thy deep recesses dwell;
perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
when meditation has her fill,

I just may cast my careless eyes
where London's spiry turrets rise,
think of it's crimes, it's cares, it's pain,
then shield me in the woods again.

ODE ON EOLUS'S HARP.*

Ethereal race, inhabitants of air,

who hymn your god amid the secret grove; ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

and raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid, with what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,

who dy'd of love, these sweet complainings part. But, hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

on the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; or he the sacred bard; †who sat alone,

in the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung,

when by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; * Æolus's Harp is a musical instrument, which plays with the wind, invented by Mr. Oswald; it's properties are fully described in the Castle of Indolence.

Jeremiah.

and to such sadly solemn notes are strung
angelic harps to soothe a dying saint.
Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

[raise;

through heaven's high dome their awful anthem
now chanting clear, and now they all conspire
to swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise.
Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string,
smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,
for till you cease, my muse forgets to sing.