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The Editor of this Collection has not much to say on the present occasion. Truth is seldom verbose: the truest things are most easily expressed in the shortest periods.

Poetry is an Art of which no liberal or cultivated mind can, or ought to be, wholly ignorant. The pleasure which it gives, and indeed the necessity of knowing enough of it to mix in modern conversation, will evince the utility of the following Compilation, which offers, in a small



very flower of English Poetry, and in which care has been taken to select not only such pieces as Innocence may read without a blush, but such as will even tend to strengthen that Innocence.


VOLTAIRE, speaking of the English Poets, gives them the preference in moral pieces to those of any other nation; and, indeed, no Poets have better settled the bounds of Duty, or more precisely determined the rules for Conduct in Life than ours.'

In this little Collection the Reader, therefore, may find the most exquisite pleasure, while he is at the same time learning the duties of life; and while he courts only En. tertainment, be deceived into Wisdom.

In a word, it is the peculiar property of POETRY to do good by stealth; to hide the thorny path of Instruction by covering it with flowers; and the veriest Infidel in polite Learning must be something more than abandoned, if he will not visit the Temple of Instruction when Pleasure leads the


to it.

E. T.

But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine !
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving power remains ;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns !




“ Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

" For here, forloru and lost, I tread,

With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go."

" Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,

“ To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder phantom only fies,

To lure thee to thy doom.

Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

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“ No flocks, that range the valley free,

To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me,

I learn to pity theni.

" But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,

And water from the spring.

Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ;

All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends,

His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care ;
The wicket, opening with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smild, And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling’ring hours beguild.

Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

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