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النشر الإلكتروني

With brisker air the filken courtiers gaze,
And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.
Of all the griefs that harrass the distress’d,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;
Tate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,
Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.

DR. JOHNSON

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ALAS! with swift and filent pace,

Impatient time rolls on the year ; The seasons change, and nature's face

Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe. 'Twas spring, 'twas summer, all was gay,

Now autumn bends a cloudy brow; The flowers of spring are swept away,

And summer fruits desert the bough. The verdant leaves that play'd on high,

And wanton'd on the western breeze, Now trod in duft neglected lie,

As Boreas strips the bending trees.

The fields that wav'd with golden grain,

As rufset heaths are wild and bare;
Not moist with dew, but drench'd in rain,

Nor health nor pleasure wa ers there.

No

No more while thro' the midnight shade

Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray, Soft pleafing woes my heart invade,

As Progne pours the melting lay. From this capricious clime she foars :

O! would fome God but wings supply, To where each morn the spring restores,

Companion of her fight I'd fly.

Vain wish! me fate compels to bear

The downward seasons iron reign, Compels to breathe polluted air,

And shiver on a blasted plain.

What bliss to life can autumn yield,

If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail ; And Ceres Alies the naked field,

And flowers, and fruits, and Phæbus fail?

Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,

To cheer me in the darkening hour? The grape

remains! the friend of wit, In love and mirth of mighty power. Haste-press the clusters, fill the bowl;

Apollo ! shoot thy parting ray : This gives the sunshine of the soul,

This God of health, and verse, and day.

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Still-still the jocund strain shall flow,

The pulse with vigorous rapture beat;

My

My Stella with new charms shall glow,
And
every
bliss in wine shall meet.

DR. JOHNSON

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O more the morn with tepid rays

Unfolds the flower of various hue ; Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,

Nor gentle eve distils the dew,

The lingering hours prolong the night,

Usurping darkness shares the day ; Her mifts restrain the force of light,

And Phæbus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloomy twilight half reveald,

With fighs we view the hoary hill, The leaflefs wood, the naked field,

The snow-top'd cot, the frozen rill.

No music warbles thro' the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain ; No more with devious steps I rove

Thro' verdant paths now fought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars,

Congeal'd impetuous showers defcend; Haite, close the window, bar the doors,

Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

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In nature's aid let art supply

With light and heat my little sphere ; Rouze, rouze the fire, and pile it high,

Light up a constellation here.

Let music sound the voice of joy!

Or mirth repeat the jocund tale; Let love his wanton wiles employ,

And o’er the season wine prevail.

Yet time life's dreary winter brings,
When mirth's

gay

tale fhall please no more ; Nor mufic charm tho' Stella fings;

Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore. Catch then, O! catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies ; Life's a short summer-man a flower, He dies--alas ! how soon he dies !

Dr. JOHNSON

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THE WINTER'S WALK. BEHOLD, my fair, where'er wè rove

What dreary prospects round us rise ; The naked hill, the leafless grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning skies ! Nor only through the wasted plain,

Stern winter! is thy force confess'd ;

Still

Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power usurp my

breast.

Enlivening hope, and fond desire,

Resign the heart to spleen and care ; Scarce frighted love maintains her fire,

And rapture saddens to despair.

In groundlefs hope, and causeless fear,

Unhappy man! behold thy doom ; Still changing with the changeful year,

The slave of sunshine and of gloom.

Tir’d with vain joys, and false alarms,

With mental and corporeal ftrife, Snatch me, ny Stella, to thy arms, And screen me from the ills of life.

DR. JOHNSON

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NO

O more, thus brooding o'er yon heap,

With avarice painful vigils keep ;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless fighs are breath'd for more.
O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys !
To purchase heaven has gold the power?
Can gold remove the mortal hour :

In

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