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Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,
And forests seem, impatient, to demand
The promised sweetness. Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last
The clouds consign their treasures to the fields ;
And softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,
In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world.
The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard,
By such as wander through the forest walks,
Beneath th' umbrageous multitude of leaves.

THOMSON.

THE SWISS PEASANT. ,

HERE the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread.
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.

Yet still, ev'n here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all.

Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ;
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board ;
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And ev’n those hills that round bis mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And, as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more.

GOLDSMITE EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear

Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ;

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed : .

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum :

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers stealing through thy dark’ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!

COLLINS.

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye;
Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own stronger errors blind.

A turkey tired of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood;
Behind her ran an infant train,
Collecting, here and there, a grain.
“ Draw near, my birds,” the mother cries,
“ This hill delicious fare supplies.
Behold the busy negro race,-
See, millions blacken all the place !
Fear not; like me with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.
How blest, how envied, were our life,
Could we but ’scape the poulterer's knife !
But man, cursed man ! on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days.
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savoury chine ;
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for gluttony are cursed,
Of the seven deadly sins, the worst.”

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An ant, who climb'd beyond her reach,
Thus answer'd from a neighbouring beech;
“ Ere you remark another's sin,
Bid thy own conscience look within ;
Control thy more voracious bill,
Nor, for a breakfast, nations kill.”

GAY.

THE MOON.

TRANSLATED FROM HOMER.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene,
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head :
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies :
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

POPE.

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