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O SAY, what is that thing call'd LIGIIT,

Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?

O, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wond'rous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,

Whene'er I Neep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,

With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear

A lofs I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy ;
While thus I fing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy:


PLANTED IN A COTTAGE GARDEN. O Thou! whom love and fancy lead

To wander near this woodland hill,

If ever music smooth’d thy quill, Or Pity wak'd thy gentle reed,

Repose beneath my humble tree,

If thou lov'st SIMPLICITY, Stranger! if thy lot has laid

In toilfome scenes of busy life,

Full forelv may'st thou rue the firife
Of weary paflions ill repaid.

In a GARDEN live with me,
If thou lov'li SIMPLICITY.

Flow'rs have sprung for many a year

O’er the viilage-maiden's grave,

That, one memorial-sprig to fave,. Bore it from a sister's bier;

And homeward walking, wept o'er me

The true tears of SIMPLICITY. And soon, her cottage window near,

With care my fender stem the plac'd;

And fondly thus her grief embrac'd, And cherish'd sad remembrance dear:

For Love fincere, and FRIENDSHIP free,

Are children of SIMPLICITY. When past was many a painful day,

Slow-pacing o'er the village-green,

In white were all its maidens leen, And bore my guardian friend away.

Ah, DeATH! what sacrifice to thee,

The ruins of SIMPLICITY!
One gen'rous swain her heart approv'd,

A youth whose fond and faithful breast

With many an artless figh confeft, In NATURE's language, that he lov’d.

But stranger ! 'tis no tale to thee,

Unless thou lov'st sựMPLICITY. He died-and foon her lip was cold,

And soon her rosy cheek was pale ;

The village wept to hear the tale, When for both, the flow bell toll’d.

Beneath yon flow'ry turf they lie,

"The lovers of SIMPLICITY. Yet one boon I have to crave;

Stranger! if thy Pity bleed,

Wilt thou do one tender deed,
And strew my pale flow’rs o'er their grave?

So lightly lie the turf on thee,
Because thou lov'ft SIMPLICITY!

THE RURAL RETREAT. MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall footh my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall ling’r near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft thall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest, Around my ivied porch shall spring, Each fragrant flow'r that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall fing, In ruflet-gown and apron blue. The village-church, among the trees, Where firit our marriage-vows were giv'n, With merry-peals thall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n.

How short is life's uncertain fpace;

Alas! how quickly done!
How swift the wild precarious chase!
And yet how difficult the race,

hard to run ! Youth stops at first its wilful ears

To wisdom's prudent voice;
Till now arriv’d at riper years,
Experienc'd AGE, worn out with cares,

Repents its earlier choice.
What though its prospects now appear

So pleasing and refin’d,
Yet groundless hope, and anxious FEAR,
By turns the busy moments share,

And prey upon the mind.
Since then falfe joys our fancy cheat

With hopes of real bliss;
Ye guardian pow'rs, that rule my fate,
The only with that I create,

Is all compriz'd in this :

May I, through life's uncertain tide,

Bé fiill from pain exempt ; May all my wants be tiill fupply'd, My ftate too low t’admit of Pride,

And yet above CONTEMPT! But ihould your providence divine,

A greater blits intend; May all those blessings you design (If e'er those blellings ihall be mine)

Be center'd in a FRIEND.

ON A PROSPECT OF EATON-COLLEGE. YE distant fpires, ye antique tow’rs,

That crown the wat’ry glade ;
Where graceful science fiilladores

Her HENRY's holy shade;
And ye, that from the itately brow,
Of windsor's heights th’expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whofe turf, whore shade, whose flow'rs among,
Wanders the hoary THAMES along

His filver-winding way!
Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields belov’d in vain!
Where once my careless childhood ftray'd,

A firanger yet to pain !
I feel the gales i hat from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow;

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary foul they seem to tooth,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a fecond SPRING.
Say, father THAMES (for thou haft seen

Full many a sprightly race,
Difporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleature trace) Who, foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arms, thy glafiy ware?

The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny

fucceed To chase the rolling circle's speed,


urge the flying ball ? While, some on earnest bus’ness bent,

Their murm’ring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To Tweeten LIBERTY; Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,

And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,

Lefs pleasing when poitest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The fun-fhine of the breast: Theirs buxom HEALTH, of rosy hue, Wild wIT, INVENTION ever new,

And lively CHEER, of viGOUR born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the Numbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around them wait,
The ministers of human fate,

And black MISFORTUNE's baleful train
Ah! shew them where in ambush fiand,
To seize their prey the murd’rous band!

Ah, tell them they are MEN !
These shall the fury PASSIONS tear,

The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful ANGER, pallid FEAR,
And SHAME, that skulks behind;


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