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How vainly, thro' infinite trouble and strife,

The many their labours employ! Since all that is truly delightful in life,

Is what all, if they will, may enjoy.

Turo' groves sequesterd, dark and still,
Low vales and

mossy

cells

among, In silent paths, the nameless rill

With liquid murmurs steals along :

Awhile it plays with circling sweep,

And lingering winds its native plain ; Then pours impetuous down the steep,

And mingles with the boundless main.

O let my years thus devious glide

Thro' silent scenes obscurely calm ; Nor wealth nor strife pollute the tide,

Nor honour's sanguinary palm.

When labour tires, and pleasure palls,

Still let the stream untroubled lie, As down the steep of age it falls, And mingle with eternity.

HAWKESWORTH.

What man in his wits had not rather be poor,

Than for lucre his freedom to give; Ever busy the means of his life to secure,

And so ever neglecting to live!

Environ'd from morning to night in a crowd,

Not a moment unbent, or alone ; Constrain'd to be abject, though never so proud,

And at every one's call but his own!

.

Still repining and longing for quiet each hour,

Yet studiously flying it still; With the means of enjoying his wish in his power,

But accurst with his wanting the will !

For a year must be past, or a day must be come,

Before he has leisure to rest :
He must add to his store this or that pretty sum,

And then will have time to be blest.

But his gains, more bewitching the more they increase,

Only swell the desire of his eye:
Such a wretch let mine enemy live, if he please,

But not even my enemy die.

Oh! what is the gain of restless care,

And what is ambition's treasure,
And what are the joys that the modish sharo

In their haunts of sickly pleasure ?
The shade with its silence,-oh! is it not sweet,

And to lie in the sun by the fountain,
And the wild flower's scent at eve to meet,

And rove o'er the heath and the mountain ?

Oh! where is the morning seen to rise,

The violet mark'd as 't is springing, The zephyr heard as at eve it sighs,

The blackbird loved for its singing ! Oh! there alone can the heart be gay,

The thought be free from sorrow, And soft the night, and short the day,

And welcome again the morrow,

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* From a very elegant volume of Poems entitled “ English

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Come, dear Amanda ! quit the town,

And to the rural hamlets fly; Behold, the wintry storms are gone,

A gentle radiance glads the sky: The birds awake, the flowers appear,

Earth spreads a verdant couch for thee; 'Tis joy and music all we hear;

'Tis love and beauty all we see.

Come! let us mark the gradual spring,

How peep the buds, the blossom blows, Till Philomel begins to sing,

And perfect May to spread the rose, Let us secure the short delight,

And wisely crop the blooming day; For soon, too soon, it will be night:

Arise, my love! and come away.

Wapt me, some soft and cooling breeze,

To Windsor's shady kind retreat,
Where sylvan scenes, wide-spreading trees,

Repel the raging dog-star's heat ;

Where Where tufted

grass
and
mossy

beds
Afford a rural calm repose;
Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,

And fragrant sweets around disclose.

Old oozy Thames, that flows fast by,

Along the smiling valley plays; His glassy surface cheers the eye,

And thro' the flowery meadows strays.

His fertile banks with herbage green,

His vales with smiling plenty swell ; Where'er his purer stream is seen

The Gods of health and pleasure dwell.

Let me thy clear, thy yielding wave

With naked arm once more divide ; In thee my glowing bosom lave,

And stem thy gently rolling tide.

Lay me with damask roses crown'd

Bencath some osier's dusky shade, Where water lilies paint the ground,

And bubbling springs refresh the glade.

Let chaste CLARINDA too be there

With azure mantle lightly drest;

Yc

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