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To many a fanciful spring

His lyre was melodiously strung; While fairies and fawns, in a ring, Have applauded the swain as he sung.

To the cheerful he ushered his smiles;
To the woeful his sigh and his tear;
A condoler with Want and her toils,
When the voice of Oppression was near.

Tho' titles and wealth were his due ;
Tho' Fortune denied his reward;
Yet Truth and Sincerity knew

What the goddess would never regard.

Avails aught the generous heart,
Which Nature to Goodness designed,
If Fortune denies to impart

Her kindly relief to the mind?

'Twas but faint the relief to dismay, The cells of the wretched among; Tho' Sympathy sung in the lay;

Tho' melody fell from his tongue.

Let the favoured of Fortune attend
To the ails of the wretched and poor :
Tho' Corydon's lays could befriend,
"Tis riches alone that can cure.

But they to Compassion are dumb;
To Pity their voices unknown;
Near Sorrow they never can come,

Till Misfortune has marked them her own.

Now the shades of the evening depend ;
Each warbler is lulled on the spray ;
The cypress doth ruefully bend

Where reposes the Shepherd's cold clay.

Adieu, then, the songs of the swain:
Let Peace still attend on his shade;
And his pipe, that is dumb to his strain,
In the grave be with Corydon laid.

THE DELIGHTS OF VIRTUE.

RETURNING morn, in orient blush arrayed, With gentle radiance hailed the sky serene; No rustling breezes waved the verdant shade; No swelling surge disturbed the azure main.

These moments, MEDITATION! sure are thine; These are the halcyon joys you wish to find,

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When Nature's peaceful elements combine
To suit the calm composure of the mind.

The Muse, exalted by thy sacred power,
To the green mountain's airy summit flew,
Charmed with the thoughtful stilness of an
hour,

That ushered beaming Fancy to her view.

Fresh from old Neptune's fluid mansion sprung The Sun, reviver of each drooping flower; At his approach, the lark, with matin

song,

In notes of gratitude confessed his power.

So shines fair Virtue, shedding light divine

On those who wish to profit by her ways; Who ne'er at parting with their vice repine,

To taste the comforts of her blissful rays.

She, with fresh hopes each sorrow can beguile, Can dissipate Adversity's deep gloom, Make meagre Poverty contented smile,

And the sad wretch forget his hapless doom.

Sweeter than shady groves in Summer's pride, Than flowery dales or grassy meads, is she; Delightful as the honeyed streams that glide From the rich labours of the busy bee.

S

Her paths and alleys are for ever green :There Innocence, in snowy robes arrayed, With smiles of pure content, is hailed the queen

And happy mistress of the sacred shade.

O let no transient gleam of earthly joy
From virtue lure your labouring steps aside;
Nor instant grandeur future hopes annoy
With thoughts that spring from insolence
and pride.

Soon will the winged moments speed away,
When you'll no more the plumes of honour

wear:

Grandeur must shudder at the sad decay,

And Pride look humble when he ponders there.

Deprived of Virtue, where is Beauty's power? Her dimpled smiles, her roses, charm no

more.

So much can guilt the loveliest form deflower:We loathe that beauty which we loved before.

How fair are Virtue's buds, where'er they blow,
Or in the desert wild, or garden gay!
Her flowers how sacred, wheresoe'er they shew,
Unknown to killing canker and decay!
t

DIRGE.

THE waving yew or cypress wreath
In vain bequeath the mighty tear;
In vain the awful pomp of Death
Attends the sable-shrouded bier.

Since Strephon's virtue's sunk to rest,
Nor Pity's sigh, nor Sorrow's strain,
Nor magic tongue, have e'er confest
Our wounded bosom's secret pain.

The just, the good, more honours share In what the conscious heart bestows, Than Vice adorned with sculptor's care, In all the venal pomp of woes.

A sad-eyed mourner at his tomb,

Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine, And echo thro' the midnight gloom That Strephon's early fall was thine.

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