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Not so the nights that in thy halls,
Once, Rosline, danc'd in joy along : Where owls now scream along thy walls,
Resounded mirth-inspiring fong..
Where bats now reft their footy wings,
Th’impurpl'd feast was wont to flow; And beauty danc'd in graceful rings,
And princes fat, where nettles grow.
What now avails, how great? how gay?
How fair, how fine, their matchless dames ? Here sleeps their undistinguish'd clay;
And e'en the stones have lost their names.
And yon gay crouds must soon expire,
Unknown, unprais’d, each fair-one's name! Not so the charms that bards inspire;
Increasing years increase their fame.
Oh, Mira! what is state or wealth ?
The great can never love like me! Wealth adds not days, nor quickens health,
Then, wiser thou, come happy be!
Come, and be mine! in this sweet spot,
Where Elk rolls clear his little wave, We'll live, and Ek shall, in a cot,
See joys that Rolline never gave.
N Higham Hill, when prospects fair
Salute the wand'ring fight,
And sleep the summer night:
When filver Cynthia reigns ! Whilft Philomel, from fiow'ry brake,
Pours forth her love-lořn trains.
Then, oh! then, I love to rise,
And trace the broom-clad hill; Whilst thro' the stillness softly flies
The whispers of the rill;
From dingle, buth, or dale,
The ruth-embroider'd vale.
As down the slope I traverse then,
I scan with curious eye
And with the atheist by :
To theologick lore,
A supernatural Pow'r!
When business dulls the mental pow'rs,
To Higham Hill I run,
There hail the rising sun.
Then how my soul revives again!
My fancy takes her fight; The muse resumes her wonted strain,
And fings with new delight!
Let the proud thing of human race,
Who, like a summer fly,
And must to-morrow die;
Or heap up fordid wealth;
That seat of Peace and Health!
Peace and Health! O, facred theme,
With all that’s blissful fraught! The rest is but an empty dream,
Not worth a poet's thought : May he, who strives for more than this,
Still turn a barren soil, Nor ever meet a ray of bliss
To mitigate his toil !
Bear me from hence, fome rural god,
To Higham Hill again;
I'll scatter round thy fane :
To breathe the blue-bell's sweet;
Where spreading hazels meet;
Or stray by hawthorn hedge, or rove
Adown the pathlefs way,
Beneath the bloom of May ;
Till weary herds retire to reft,
Till sheep are pent in fold,
With tints of burnish'd gold!
If, when I ftray to Higham Hill,
I meet the rustick throng,
And note me for my song:
I spend with them the day, And make the vices of a court
The burden of my lay.
And oft I've fang the tender ftrain,
The while the village maid
And all her heart betray'd.
(Let Laureats such rehearse !) But wheresoe'er my fancy Atray'd, A moral mark'd my
Their loves to me the fhepherds tell,
What fwains have faithless prov’d;
And who are least belov'd:
I love their plaints to hear ;
And stop the starting tear.
No thorns obstruct their path of life,
With health their farms abound; And, foes to law and lawless ftrife,
They live the zodiack round.
WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike fon;
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero fate
On his imperial throne :
(So should desert in arms be crown'd.)
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
Timotheus, plac'd on Irigh,
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre ; The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire.