صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

The daily labours of the bee,
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And vot provide for future want?
My dog, the truest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind;
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care,
And every fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge.

From nature, too, I take my rule
To shun contempt and ridicule.
I never with important air,
In conversation overbear :

grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise;
My tongue within my lips 1 rein,
For who talks much must talk in vain :
We from the woody torrent fly:
Who listeus to the chattering pie?
Nor would I with felonious flight,
By stealth invade my neighbour's right:
Rapacious animals we hate ;
Kiles, hawks, and wolves deserve their fates,
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and serpent kind ?
But eavy, calumny and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite;
Thus every object of creation
Can furnish hints for contemplation.
And, from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean.

Thy fame is just the sage replies :
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise.
Pride often guides the author's pen;
Books as affected are as men:
But he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws;

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And those, without our schools, suffice
To make men moral, good and wise.

II.-Ode to Leven Water, ON Leven's banks while free to rove And tune the rural pipe to love, 1 envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limped source; No rocks impede thy diinpling course, That sweetly warbles o’er its bed, With white, round polish'd pebbles spread; While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood, In myriads cleave thy chrystal flood; The springing trout, in speckl?d pride ;. The salınon monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch and groves of pine, And hedges flower'd with eglantine..

Still on thy banks so gaily green, May nuin'rous herds and flocks be seen : And lasses, chanting o'er the pail; And shepherds, piping in the dale; And ancient faith, that knows no guile; And industry embrown'd with toil; And heart resolv'd and hands prepar'd, The blessings they enjoy to guard.

III.--Ode from the 19th Psalm.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangled heavens a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun from day to day,
Does bis Creator's power display ;
And publishes to ev'ry land,
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale,
And nightly, to the list'oing earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole,

What though, in solemn silence, all,
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid these radiant orbs be found ?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing, as they shine,
« The hand that made us is divine."

IV.--Rural Charms. SWEET Auburn! loveliest Village of the plain! Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab’ring swain; Where smiling spring its earliest yisils paid, And parting summer's liag'ring blooms delay'd : Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease ! Seats of iny youth, when ev'ry sport could please! How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! How often have I paus'd on every charm ! The shelter'd cot the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church, that topp'd the neighb’ring hill; The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made. How often have I bless'd the coming day, When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, And all the village train from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree! While many a pastime cirled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd : And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And slights of art and feats of strength went round And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the inirthful band inspir'd :

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding oui to tire eace other down ;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the places
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd ftom below;
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung;
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children just let loose t:om school;
The waich dog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring wind ;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all, in soft confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
V.-The Painter who pleased Nobody and every Body,

LEST men suspect your tale untrue,
Keep probability in view,
The trav'ller, leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds,
Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
Make e'en his real courage doubted.
But flatt'ry never seems absurd ;
The flatter'd always take your word;
Impossibilities seem just;
They take the strongest praise on trust;
Hyperboles, though e'er so great,
Will still come short of self conceit.

So very like a painter drew,
That ev'ry eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just that life itself was there;
No flatt'ry with his colours laid,
To bloom restor'd the fadera aid;

each muscle all it:
The mouth, the chin, the nou th,
His honest pencil touch'd with oth,
And mark'd the date of age and youth.

He lost his friends; his practice faild,
Truth should not always be reveald ;
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no ove sent the second pay.

Two busto's, fraught with every srace,
A Venus' and Apolo's face,
He plac'd in view, resolv'd to please,
Whoever sat, he drew from these ;
From these corrected every feature,
And spirited each awkward creature.

All things were set; the hour was come, His palette ready o'er his thumb; My lord appear'd, and seated right, In proper attitude and light, The painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece ; Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece, Of Titan's tints, of Guido's air, “ Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there, Might well a Raphael's hand require, To give them all the native fire ; The features, fraught with sense and wit, You'll grant, are very hard to hit : But yet, with patience, you shall view As much as paint or art can do: Observe the work."-My lord reply'd, « Till

thought my mouth was wide; Besides, my nose is somewhat long; Dear sir, for me 'tis far too young.” “ O pardon me," the artist cry'd, " In this, we painters must decide. The piece e'en common eyes must strike; I'll warrant it extremely like." My lord examin'd it anew, No lookingglass seem'd half so true.

A lady came, With borrow'd grace, He from his Venus forni'd her face, Her lover prais'd the painter's art, So like the picture in bis heart! To every age some charm he lent; E’en beauties were alınost content. Through all the town his art they prais'd, His custom grew, his price was rais'd.


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