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The ravish'd fight the pleasing landscape fills,
Here fink the vallies, and there rise the hills.
Not with more horror nods bleak Calpe's height,
Than here the pictur'd rock aftounds the fight.
Not Thames more devious-winding leaves his source,
Than here the wand'ring rivers shape their course.
Obliquely lab’ring runs the gurgling rill;
Still murm'ring runs, or seems to murmur still,
An aged oak, with hoary moss o'erspread,
Here lifts aloft it's venerable head;
There overshadowing hängs a sacred wood,
And nods inverted in the neighb'ring flood.
Each tree as in it's native forest shoots,
And blushing bends with Autumn's golden fruits.
Thy pencil lends the rose a lovelier hue,
And gives the lily fairer to our view.
Here fruits and flow'rs adorn the varied year,
And paradise with all it's sweets is here.
There stooping to it's fall a tow'r appears,
With tempests shaken, and a weight of years:
The daified meadow, and the woodland green,
In order rise, and fill the various scene.

Some parts, in light magnificently dress'd,
Obtrusive enter, and stand all confess'd;
Whilft others decently in shades are thrown,
And by concealing, make their beauties known,
Alternate thus, and mutual is their aid,
Their lights, owe half their lustre to the shade,

So the bright fires that light the milky way,
Loft and extinguish'd in the solar ray;
In the sun's absence pour a flood of light,
And borrow all their brightness from the night.

To cheat our eyes, how well doft thou contrive !
Each object here seems real and alive.
Not more resembling life the figures stand,
Formd by Lyfippus, or by Phidias' hand,

Unnumber's

1

Unnumber'd beauties in the piece unite,
Ruth on the eye, and croud upon the fight :
At once our wonder and delight you.
We view with pleasure, and with rapture praise.

raise ;

HYMN TO SOLITUDE.

BY MISS WHATELY.

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OW genial Spring o'er lawn and grove

Extends her vivid power,
Now Phæbus shines with mildest beams,

And wakes each sleeping flower,

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Iwan
And when the rapid car of day

Illumes the farthest west,
When Sleep dissolves the captive's chains,

And Anguilh fiks to reft ;

Then let me range the shadowy lawns,

When Vesper's silver light
Plays on the trembling streams, and gikls

The fable veil of night.

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Soars thro' the trackless realms of space,

Sees endless fyftems roll ; Whilft all harmoniously combine

To form one beauteous whole.

All hail, sweet Solitude! to thee;

In thy sequefter'd bower,
Let me invoke the Pastoral Muse,

And every sylvan power.

Dear, pensive nymph, the tender thought

And deep research is thine ; 'Tis thine to heal the tortur'd breast,

And form the great design.

On thy still bosom let me rest,

Far from the clang of war ;
Where ftern Oppreffion's bloody chains

Precede the victor's car :

Here fold me in thy facred arms,

Where Albion's happy plains Exulting tell the nations round

A British Brunswick reigns.

Here let me hail each rising sun;

Here view each day's decline :
Be fame and sway my sovereign's lot,

Be peace and freedom mine!

Rr

COOPER'S

COOP É R's H I L L.

BY SIR JOHN DENHAM.

SUPE

URE there are poets which did never dream

Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream
Of Helicon ; we therefore may suppose
Those made not poets,, but the poets those ;
And as courts make not kings, but kings the court,
So where Muses and their train resort,
Parnassus stands ; if I can be to thee
A poet, thou Parnassus art to mę:
Nor wonder, if (advantag'd in my flight,
By taking wing from thy auspicious height)
Through untrac'd ways and airy paths I fly,
More boundless in my fancy than my eye ;
My eye, which swift as thought contracts the space
That lies between, and first salutes the place
Crown'd with that sacred pile, fo vaft, so high,
That whether 'tis a part of earth, or sky,
Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud
Aspiring mountain, or descending cloud.
Paul's, the late theme of such a Muse * whose flight
Has bravely reach'd and foar'd above thy height:
Now shalt thou stand, tho' fword, or time, or fire,
Or zeal more fierce than they, thy fall conspire,
Secure, whilft thee the best of poets fings,
Preserv'd from ruin by the best of kings.
Under his proud survey the city lies,
And like a milt beneath a hill doth rise;
Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd,
Seems at this distance but a darker cloud ;

* Mr. Waller.

And

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