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Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts,

By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts,

And health, and peace, and contemplation dwell. There Study shall with Solitude recline,

And Friendship pledge me to his fellow swains, And Toil and Temperance sedately twine

The slender cord that fluttering life sustains, And fearless Poverty shall guard the door,

And Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread, And Industry supply the humble store,

And Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed ; White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,

Shall chase far off the goblins of the night, And Independence o'er the day preside,

Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

THE MISERIES OF THE POOR AND THE

LUXURY OF THE RICH. Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped-what waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There, the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here, while the proud their long drawn pomps display, There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way.

The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy !
Are these thy serious thoughts ?-Ah, turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed,
Has wept at tales of innocence distressed;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.

AN ELEGY TO PITY,
Hail, lovely power, whose bosom heaves the sigh

When fancy paints the scene of deep distress;
Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye,

When rigid fate denies the power to bless. Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey.

From flowery meads, can, with that sigh, compare ; Not dew-drops glittering in the morning ray

Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play;

Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ;
No blood-stained traces mark thy blameless way;

Beneath thy feet no hapless insect dies.
Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me,

To spring the partridge from the guileful foe,
From secret snares the struggling bird to free,

And stop the hand upraised to give the blow.

And when the air with heat meridian glows,

And nature droops beneath the conquering gleam, Let

us, slow wandering where the current flows, Save sinking flies that float along the stream. Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care ;

To me thy sympathetic gifts impart,
Teach me in friendship’s griefs to bear a share,

And justly boast the generous feeling heart :
Teach me to soothe the helpless orphan’s grief,

With timely aid the widow's woes assuage, To misery's moving cries to yield relief,

And be the sure resource of drooping age. So when the genial spring of life shall fade,

And sinking nature owns the dread decay, Some soul congenial then may lend its aid,

And gild the close of life's eventful day.

THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove : 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war,

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. “Ah! why all abandoned to darkness and woe ;

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; Oh! soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away :

Full quickly they pass—but they never return.

“ Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,

The moon half extinguished her crescent displays : But lately I marked, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conduets thee to splendour again : But man's faded glory what change shall renew;

Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain !”

“ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more :

I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with

dew. Nor, yet for the ravage of winter I moum;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save: But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn:

Oh! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!

'Twas thus by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. Oh! pity, great Father of light, then I cried,

Thy creature who fain would not wander from Thee ! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free.

" And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blend.

ing And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,”

ODE TO ELOQUENCE.
Heard ye those loud contending waves,

That shook Cecropia's pillared state?
Saw ye the mighty from their graves
Look

up,

and tremble at her fate ? Who shall calm the angry storm ? Who the mighty task perform,

And bid the raging tumult cease ?
See the son of Hermes rise ;
With syren tongue and speaking eyes,
Hush the noise, and soothe to peace !
See the olive branches waving

O'er Ilissus' winding stream;
Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving,

The Muses smiling by supreme !
See the nymphs and swains advancing,
To harmonious measures dancing:

Grateful Io Peans rise
To thee, O Power ! who canst inspire
Soothing words

or words of fire, And shook thy plumes in Attic skies ! Lo! from the regions of the North,

The reddening storm of battle pours ; Rolls along the trembling earth,

Fastens on the Olynthian towers. “Where rests the sword ?-where sleep the brave ? Awake ! Cecropia's ally save

From the fury of the blast; Burst the storm on Phocis' walls ; Rise ! or Greece for ever falls,

Up! or Freedom breathes her last !" The jarring States, obsequious now,

View the Patriot's hand on high; Thunder gathering on his-brow,

Lightning flashing from his eye!

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