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A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain;
Their hollow moments undelighted all?
Sure peace is his; a folid life eftrang'd
To disappointment, and fallacious hope:
Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,

In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring,
When heaven defcends in fhowers; or bends the bough
When Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams:
Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies

Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap;
These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, fpread o'er all the lowing vale;
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of ftreams,
And hum of bees, inviting fleep fincere
Into the guiltlefs breaft, beneath the shade,
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught befides of profpect, grove, or fong,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear.
Here too dwells fimple Truth; plain Innocence;
Unfullied Beauty; found unbroken Youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd;
Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil;
Calm Contemplation, and poetic Ease.



The Pleafure and Benefit of an improved and well-directed Imagination.

OH! bleft of Heaven, whom not the languid fongs

Of Luxury, the firen! not the bribes

Of fordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils

Of pageant Honour, can feduce to leave

Thofe ever-blooming fweets, which, from the ftore

Of Nature, fair Imagination culls,

To charm th' enliven'd foul! What tho' not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envy'd life: tho' only few possess
Patrician treasures, or imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children juft,
With richer treafures, and an ampler ftate,
Endows at large whatever happy man

Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns

The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marble and the fculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud pofsefsor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breaft enjoys. For him, the Spring
Diftils her dews, and from the filken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes
The fetting fun's effulgence; not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Afcends; but whence his bofom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only; for th' attentive Mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of facred order, foon fhe feeks at home,
To find a kindred order; to exert

Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair infpir'd delight: her temper'd pow'rs
Refine at length, and ev'ry passion wears
A chafter, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler profpects, if to gaze
On Nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, fhe afsumes the port
Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations, if to these the Mind
Exalts here daring eye; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of fervile Cuftom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs?
Would fordid policies, the barb'rous growth
Of Ignorance and Rapine, bow her down
To tame purfuits, to indolence and fear;
Lo! fhe appeals to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the fun's unwearied course,
The elements and feafons: all declare
For what th' eternal MAKER has ordain'd
The pow'rs of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being; to be great like Him,

Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom Nature's works inftruct, with God himself
Hold converfe; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their fouls.





The Hermit.

AT the clofe of the day, when the hamlet is ftill, And mortals the fweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's fong in the grove

'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd,
A hermit his nightly complaint thus began:
Tho' mournful his numbers, his foul was refign'd;
He thought as a fage, tho' he felt as a man.

"Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe; "Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy fad ftrain? "For fpring fhall return, and a partner bestow; "And thy bofom no trace of misfortune retain.

"Yet if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! "Mourn, sweetest companion; man calls thee to


"O footh him whofe pleasures, like thine, pass away! "Full quickly they pafs-but they never return!

"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, "The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays; "But lately I mark'd, when majeftic on high

"She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.

"Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladnefs pursue

"The path that conducts thee to splendor again: "But man's faded glory no 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 "Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; "Kind Nature the embryo-blofsom fhall fave: "But when shall spring vifit the mould'ring urn! "O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave !"



The Beggar's Petition.

PITY the forrows of a poor old man,

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span ;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your flore.

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Thefe hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

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