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'Till the fly tempter urg'd insidious fait,
And lur'd her weakness to forbidden fruit;
There perish'd grace, her guardian honour fled,
And iad remembrance mourns each blessing dead!
Expell'd the paradise of native sway,
She wanders now to ev'ry vice a prey
A prey to yonder terror of the night,
(Avert, ye gods! such monsters from my'fight)
The bully dire: whose front the furies swell,
And scars dishonest mark the son of hell—
In vain! slie shrinks to shun his luckless pace,
Aw'd by the terrors of his vengeful face;
To scenes Tartarean, fee! the wretches hie,
Where drench'd in vice, they rave—or rot-ror die.
Heav'n I how unlike the pure, the tranquil scene,
Where rural minh and rural manners reign;
Where simple cheer disclaims the cares of wealth,
And fresh'ning gales diffuse the glow of health;
Where, undisturb'd, unenvy'd, unconfin'd,
Calm reason rules each moment of the mind;
Where mock'd ambition seeks her last retreat,
And proves the world, a bubble or a cheat.
Tie thru following Pieces are taken front a PastoralDrama, entitled, " The «• Search after Happiness;" -written by Mi/s More, of Bristol.
O Happiness, celestial fair,
Our earliest hope, our latest care,
O hear our fond request;
Vouchsafe, coy fugitive, to tell
On what sweet spot thou lov'st to dwell,
And make us truly blest.
Amidst the walks of public life,
The cares of wealth, ambition's strife*
We long have sought in vain;
The crowded city's noisy din,
And all the busy haunts of men,
Afford but care and pain.
Pleas'd with the soft, the soothing pow'f
Of calm reflection's silent hour,
Sequester'd dost thou dwell i
Where care and tumult ne'er intrude,
Dost; thou reside with Solitude,
Thy humble.votaries tells .
O Happiness, celestial fair',
Our earliest hope, our latest care,
Let us not sue in vain;
O deign to hear our fond request,
Come take possession of our breast,
And there for ever reign.
SWEET Solitude, thou placid queen,
Of modest air and brow serene,
'Tis thou inspir'st the poet's themes,
Wrapp'd in soft visionary dreams.
Parent'of Virtue, nurse of thought,
By thee were Saints and Patriarchs taught,
Wisdom from thee her treasures drew,
And in thylap fair Science grew,
Whate'er exalts, refines and charms.
Invites to thought, to virtue warms,
Whate'er is perfect, fair and good.
We owe to thee, sweet Solitude.'
In these blest (hades thou dost maintain
Thy- peaceful unmolested reign;
No turbulent desires intrude
On thy repose, sweet Solitude.
With thee the charm of life shall last,
Ev'n when it's rosy bloom is past,
And when How-pacing Time shall spread
Its silver blossoms o'er my head;
No more with this vain world perplex'd,
Thou (halt prepare nte for the next;
The springs of life (hall gently cease,
And Angels point the way of peace.
7i Simplicity,' ■>
HAIL, artless Simplicity, beautiful maid,
In the genuine attractions of nature array'd;
L« the rich, and the proud, and the gay, and the vain,
Still laugh at the graces that move in thy train;
No charm in thy modest allurements they find,
The pleasures they follow a sting leave behind:
Can criminal passion enrapture the breast
Like virtue with peace and serenity blest i"
O would you Simplicity's precepts attend,
Like us with delight at her altar you'd bend;
The pleasures (he yields would with joy be embrae'd.
You'd practise from virtue, and love them from taste.
The linnet enchants us the bushes among,
Tho' cheap the musician, yet sweet is the song;
We catch his soft warbling in air as he floats,
And with extasy hang on his ravishing notes.
Our water is drawn from the clearest of springs.
And our food, nor disease, nor satiety brings;
Our mornings are chearful, our labours are blest,
Our ev'nings are pleasant, our nights crown'd with rest.
From our culture yon garden it's ornament finds,
And we catch at the hint for improving our minds;
To live to some purpose we constantly try,
And we mark by our actions the days as they fly.
Since such are the joys that Simplicity yields.
We may well be Content with our woods and our fields;
How oselefs to us then, ye great, were your wealth,
When without it we purchase both pleasure and health.
O D E for the NEW-YEAR 1773. ,
Written by W. White Head, E/j.
Perforated before their Majesties.
V\T R A PT in the stole of sable grain,
Vs With storms and tempests in his train,
Which howl the naked woods among,
Winter claims the solemn song.
Hark! 'tis Nature's last fare* el,
Ev'ry blast is Nature's knell 1
Yet, shall glooms oppress the mind,
So oft by sage experience taught
To feel its present views confin'd,
And to the future point th' aspiring thought I
All that fades again (hall live,
Nature dies but to revive.
Yon Sun, who fails in southern skies.
And faintly gilds th' horizon's bound, Shall northward still, and northward rife,
With beams of warmth, and splendor crown'd;
Shall wake the flumb'ring, buried grain,
From the cold earth's relenting breast,
And Britain's isle ihall bloom aoain.
In all its wonted verdure drelt:
Britain, to whom kind Heav'n's indulgent care
Has ftx'd in temperate climes its stated goal,
Far from the burning zone's inclement air,
Far from th' eternal frosts which bind the pole.
Here dewy Spring exerts his genial powers,
Here Summer glows salubrious, not severe:
Here copious Autumn spreads his golden stores.
And Winter strengthens the returning year,
O with each blessing may it rife,
Which Heaven can give, or mortals bear!
May each wing'd moment, as it flies,
Improve a joy, or ease a care: ,
'Till Britain's grateful heart, astonisli'd, bends
To that Almighty Power, from whom all good descends.
¥bt Withered Rose: the last Composition of the late A/r. Cunningham, luritten by hint a few Weeks before bis Death, and intf/ided, as be expressed himself to a Friend to whom be presented it, as a trmt Image cf himself, being then in a very poor State of Health,
SWEET object of the zephyr's kiss.
Come, rose, come courted to my bower:
Queen of the bai.ks! the garden's bliss!
Come and abash yon' tawdry flower.
Why call us to revokeless doom?
With grief the opening buds reply;
Not suffered to extend our blocm,
Scarce born, alas! before we die!
Man having pafs'd appointed years.
Ours are but days—the scene must close:
And when Fate's messenger appears,
What is he but a Withered Ross \
The NYMPH of T A U R IS, an Elect.
Written on the Death of Mist Anne Trelawney, Daughter of Sir Harry Trelawney, who died in Jamaica.
\\THO^E happy suns without a cloud descend!
* * Who treads the wild of life, nor meets a thorn?
To grief is god-like Virtue doom'd to bend;
The turtle eye of innocence to mourn.
A gentle nymph of Media's green domain,
Where Tauris lifts with pride her hundred tow'rs,
Far from the precincts of her native plain,
Breathes her last sigh in 'Spahan's hapless bow'rs.
What shepherds melt at Nora's sacred tomb i
At Nora's tomb, each nymph of 'Spahan sighs;
While sadly sweet along the listening gloom,
On Sorrow's lyre the dirge complaining dies.
The band of white-rob'd virgins let me join,
And scatter incense on the hallow'd ground;
Where waving mournful o'er the lonely shrine,
The grove in silent horror glooms around.
Tho* far from Tauris thy fair reliques lie,
Thy gentle ghost her grateful daughters mourn;
Her sons in sorrow heave the fruitless sigh,
And melt in visions o'er thy distant urn.
Tho' far from Media's once delightful plain,
In 'Spahan's valley sleeps the gentle maid;
No prowling Arab shall thy tomb prophane,
Breathe on thy shrine, and wound thy shrinking shade.
Far hence the demons of the troubled air,
Shall bid their thunders roll, the tempest rave:
No livid tight'nings through the grove shall glare,
To blast th' eternal bloom that decks thy grave.
Here shall the rose with softest fragrance spring,
HeavVs mildest dews thy humble bed adorn :.-
Hence shall the songster mount on early wing,
And warble round thee ere he meets the morn.
Ah! here with woe a sister's heart (hall heave,
A heart by all the Virtues lov'd in vain!
Pale, on her tears, (hall rife the star of eve,
And midnight hear her pit) 'd voice complain.