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And when, the destin'd term at length complete,
Their ashes rest in peace; eternal fame
Sounds wide their praise: triumphant over fate,
In sacred song for ever lives their name.

This Hercules is happiness! obey

My voice, and live. Let thy celestial birth Lift and enlarge thy thoughts. Behold the way That leads to fame, and raises thee from earth. Immortal! Lo, I guide thy steps. Arise, Pursue the glorious path, and claim thy native skies.

HYMN TO CONTENT.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

O THOU, the Nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temp'rate vow:

Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth, unalter'd brow.

O come, in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delights.

No more by varying passions heat,

O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;

Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
Thy modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning through this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temp'rate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet;

Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy! In what brown hamlet dost thou joy To tell thy simple tale?

The lowliest children of the ground, Moss-rose and violet, blossom round, And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may chuse to hail thy pow's,
And court thy gentle sway?

When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse
And shed thy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And ev'ry storm is laid;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whisp'ring through the shade.

THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

BY DR. LANGHORNE.

THERE
HERE are that love the shades of life,

And shun the splendid walks of fame;
There are that hold it rueful strife,
To risk ambition's losing game.

That far from Envy's lurid eye,

The fairest fruits of Genius rear; Content to see them bloom and die

In friendship's small, but genial sphere.

Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far,
The Evening Primrose shuns the day;
Blooms only to the western star,
And loves its solitary ray.

In Eden's vale an aged hind,

At the dim twilight's closing hour,

On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd,
With wonder view'd the op'ning flower,

"Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,
In pity's simple thought," he cries,
"Thy bosom must not feel the glow
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies,

"Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,
The hamlet's little train behold;
Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,
When thine the falling shades unfold.

"Nor thee, the hasty shepherd heeds, When love has fill'd his heart with cares;

For flowers he rifles all the meads,

For waking flowers--but thine forbears.

"Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom, On night's chill shade, that fragrant breath;

Let smiling suns those gems illume!

Fair flower, to live unseen is death."

Soft as the voice of vernal gales,

That o'er the bending meadow blow; Or streams that steal through even vales, And murmur that they move so slow.

Deep in her unfrequented bower,

Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain; The Bird of Eve approv'd her flower,

And answer'd thus the anxious swain:

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