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WHETHER amid the gloom of Night I stray,
Or my glad eyes enjoy revolving day,
Still Nature's various face informs my sense
Of an all-wise, all-powerful Providence,

When the gay sun first breaks the shades of Night,
And strikes the distant eastern hills with light,
Colour returns, the plains their livery wear,
And a bright verdure clothes the smiling year;
The blooming flow'rs with opening beauties glow,
And grazing flocks their milky fleeces show;
The barren cliffs with chalky fronts arise,
And a pure azure arches o'er the skies.
But when the gloomy reign of Night returns,
Stript of her fading pride, all Nature mourns:
The trees no more their wonted verdure boast,
But weep, in dewy tears, their beauty lost:
No distant landscapes draw our curious eyes,
Wrapt in Night's robe the whole creation lies:
Yet still, even now, while darkness clothes the land,
We view the traces of th' Almighty hand;
Millions of stars in heaven's wide vault appear,
And with new glories hang the boundless sphere:
The silver moon her western couch forsakes,
And o'er the skies her nightly circle makes;
Her solid globe beats back the sunny rays,
And to the world her borrow'd light repays.

Whether those stars, that twinkling lustre send, Are suns, and rolling worlds those suns attend, Man may conjecture, and new schemes declareYet all his systems but conjectures are;

But this we know, that Heav'n's eternal King,
Who bid this universe from nothing spring,
Can at his word, bid num'rous worlds appear,
And rising worlds th' all-powerful word shall hear.

When to the western main the sun descends,
To other lands a rising day he lends:

The spreading dawn another shepherd spies,
The wakeful flocks from their warm folds arise;
Refresh'd, the peasant seeks his early toil,
And bids the plough correct the fallow soil.
While we in sleep's embraces waste the night,
The climes oppos'd enjoy meridian light:
And when those lands the busy sun forsakes,
With us again the rosy morning wakes;
In lazy sleep the night rolls swift away,
And neither clime laments his absent ray.

When the pure soul is from the body flown, No more shall Night's alternate reign be known; The sun no more shall rolling light bestow, But from the Almighty streams of glory flow. Oh! may some nobler thought my soul employ, Than empty, transient, sublunary joy. The stars shall drop, the sun shall lose his flame, But thou, O God for ever shine the same.



THE silver moon's enamour'd bear

Steals softly through the night;
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state, go, balmy sleep!
'Tis where you've seldom been;
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay;

Till Morn unbars her golden gate,
And gives the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love.

And see-the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green;

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove;
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love.

For see! the rosy May draws nigh,
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.




HAIL gentle spirits, who, with magic wing,
Chase the dark clouds of sullen night away;
And from her murky cave, my freed soul bring,
To revel in the radiant beams of day!

What are you, say? or earthly, or divine,
Who thus can cheer the pause of dull repose?
With chemic art the dross of sleep refine,

And beauteous scenes to curtain'd eyes disclose.

What are you, who, subduing time and space,
To bless the moments, can a friend restore?
I hear that voice-behold that form-that face,
And grateful own-your power can give no more.
Hail gentle spirits! to whose guardian care
I owe such bliss-yet know not what you are.



Occasioned by a Lady's being alarmed at a mad
Woman, known by that appellation.

Wuy fair maid, in ev'ry feature,
Are such signs of fear express'd?
Can a wand'ring wretched creature
With such terrors fill thy breast?
Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet-thy fears are vain;
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee,
Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.

Dost thou weep to see my anguish?
Mark me! and avoid my woe;
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false-I found them so:

For I lov'd-oh! so sincerely,

None could ever love again;

But the youth I lov'd so dearly,
Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.

Fondly my young heart receiv'd him,
Which was doom'd to love but one;
He sigh'd, he vow'd, and I believ'd him,
He was false-and I undone.

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