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“ Grant, heav'nly pow'r! thy peaceful sway
“ May still my ruder thoughts controul; “ Thy hand to point my dubious way,
Thy voice to foothe the melting foul! “ Far, in the shady sweet retreat,
“ Let thought beguile the ling’ring hour; “ Let quiet court the moffy-seat,
" And twining-olives form the bow'r. “ Let dove-ey'd PEACE her wreath bestow,
“ And oft lit list’ning in the dale, “ While night's sweet warbler from the bough
“ Tells to the grove her plaintive tale. “ Soft, as in deLIA's snowy breast,
“Let each consenting passion move; “ Let angels watch its silent rest,
66 And all its blissful dreams be love."
THE BLACK-BIRDS. THE sun had cheer'd the mountain-snow,
His beams had pierc'd the stubborn foil, The melting streams began to flow,
And ploughmen urg'd their annual toil. 'Twas then, amidst the vocal throng,
Whom nature wak'd to MIRTH, and LOVE, A BLACK-BIRD rais'd his am'rous song,
And thus it echo'd through the grove. « O fairest of the feather'd train !
“ For whom I sing, for whom I burn, “ Attend with pity to my strain,
“ And grant my love a kind return. “ For see, the wint'ry storms are flown,
“ And zephyrs gently fan the air ; “ Let us the genial influence own, “Let us the vernal pastime share.
“ The RAVEN plumes his jetty wing,
“ To pleate his croaking paramour, " And LARKS responsive carols sing,
“ And tell their passion as they foar : “ But does the RAVEN's fable wing
“ Excel the glofly jet of mine? “ Or can the LARK more sweetly sing,
" Than we, who strength with softness join? « O, let me then thy steps attend !
“ I'll point new treasures to thy ht: " Whether the grove thy wish befriend,
“ Or hedge-rows green, or meadows bright. “ I'll guide thee to the clearest rill,
“ Whose streams among the pebbles stray; “ There will we fip, and lip our fill,
“ Or on the flow’ry margin play. " I'll lead thee to the richest brake,
“ Imperv’ous to the school-boy's eye; “ For thee the plaster'd neft I'll make,
“ And to thy downy-bosom fly. “ When, prompted by a mother's care,
" Thy warmth shall form th' imprison'd young, “ The pleasing task I'll gladly share,
“ Or cheer thy labours with a fong. “ I'll bring thee food, I'll range the fields,
“ And cull the best of ev'ry kind, " Whatever nature's bounty yields,
66 And love's allid'ous care can find. “ And when my lovely mate would firay,
“. To taste the summer sweets at large, “ I'll wait at home the live-long day,
“ And fondly tend our little charge. “ Then prove with me the sweets of love,
“ With me divide the cares of life, “ No bulh Thall boast in all the grove,
“ A mate so fond, fo bleft a wife.”
He ceas'a his fong-the plumy dame
Heard with delight the love-fick strain, Nor long conceal’d a mutual flame,
Nor long repress’d his am'rous pain. He led her to the nuptial bow'r,
And perch'd with triumph by her fide; What gilded roof could boast that hour
A fonder mate, or happier bride? Next morn he wak'd her with a song;
“ Behold,” he said, “ the new-born day, “ The LARK, his matin-peal has rung,
“ Arise, my love, and come away!” Together through the fields they ftray'd,
And to the murm’ring riv'let's side, Renew'd their vows, and hopp’d, and play'd,
With artless joy, and decent pride. When 0! with grief my mufe relates
What dire misfortune clos'd the tale, Sent by an order from the fates,
A gunner met them in the vale. Alarm’d, the lover cry'd, “ my dear,
“ Hafte ! haste! away! from danger fly! “ Here, gunner, point thy thunder here,
“ O! spare my love, and let me die!” At him the gunner took his aim,
Too sure the volley'd thunder flew! O, had he chose some other game!
Or shot--as he was wont to do! Divided pair! forgive the wrong,
While I with tears your fate rehearse, I'll join the widow's plaintive song,
And save the lover in my verse.
THE MATRON's EPITAPH.
FIDELE's TOMB. TO fair Fidele's graffy tomb,
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op’ning sweet, of earliest bloom,
To rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing Ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be feen,
No GOBLINS lead their nightly crew; The female pays Thall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew:
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempefts Thake thy sylvan cell; Or ’midst the chase on ev'ry plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed; Belov'd till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead.
THE HAPPY LIFE. HOW happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honeft thought;
And simple TRUTH his highest skill. Whose passions not his master's are ;
Whose foul is still prepar'd for death; Not ty’d unto the world with care
Of princes' ear, or vulgar breath. Who hath his life from humours freed,
Whose CONSCIENCE is his strong retreat, Whose state can neither flatt'rers' feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors' great: Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are giv'n with praise ;
Nor rules of state, but rules of GOOD: Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend!
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall,
And having nothing, yet hath all.