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Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat handed Phillis dresses ;
And then, in haste, her bow'r she leaves,
With Theftylis to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecs found
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer'd made;
And young and old come forth to play
On a fun-fhine holy-day,
Till the live-long day-light fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How fairy Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht and pull'd, the said,
And he by fryar's lanthorn led;
Tells how the drudging goblin swet
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flale had thrash'd the corn
That ten day-lab’rers could not end ;
Then lies him down the lubbard fiend,
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And, crop-full, cut of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings.
VOL. I.

D

'Thus

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whisp’ring winds soon lull'd alleep.
Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes,
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend
To win her grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mak, and antique pageantry,
Such fights as youthful poets dream
On sur mer eves, by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod ilage anon,
If Johnson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting foul may pierce,
In notes with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness, long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tye
The hidden foul of harmony;

That

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That Orpheus self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heapt Elysian flow'rs, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
OF Pluto, to haye quite fet free
His half regain'd Eurydice.
These delights if thou can'it give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

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Written in a Country Church Yard.

This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epi

thet. The heroic measure with alternate rhime is very properly adapted to the folemnity of the subject, as it is the slowest movement that our language admits of. The latter part of the poem

is thetic and interesting.

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HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,

And droufy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the Moon complain
Of such, as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Moleft her ancient, solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
D 3

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