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ANGELINA. With* what a silent and dejected pace Dost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advance In the blue welkin's vault !— Pale wanderer! ! Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, That thus, with such a melancholy grace, Thou dost pursue thy solitary course? Hast thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook Thy widow'd breast-on which the spoiler oft Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round With its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller, How like thy fate to mine !-Yet I have still One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st; My woes will soon be buried in the grave Of kind forgetfulness my journey here, Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd 'to trace Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath The leaden pinions of unshaken time; Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue To cheat thy steps along the weary way. * With how sad steps, O moon! thou climb’st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face!
Sir P. Sidney,
O that the sum of human happiness
Around the winter fire
Of early youth, but silent, one by one,
Yet hist, I hear a step.-In this dark wood-
TO A FRIEND.
WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.
I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian,
I've also read of, without wonder ; But such a cursed egregious blunder, As that a man of wit and sense Should leave his books to hoard up pence,Forsake the loved Aonian maids For all the petty tricks of trades, I never, either now, or long since, Have heard of such a piece of nonsense; That one who learning's joys hath felt, And at the Muse’s altar knelt, Should leave a life of sacred leisure To taste the accumulating pleasure ; And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, Grovel in loads of kindred muck. Oh! 'tis beyond my comprehension ! A courtier throwing up his pension,A lawyer working without a fee, A parson giving charity, A truly pious methodist preacher, Are not, egad, so out of nature. Had nature made thee half a fool, But given thee wit to keep a school, I had not stared at thy backsliding : But when thy wit I can confide in, When well I know thy just pretence To solid and exalted sense; When well I know that on thy head Philosophy her lights hath shed, I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, I wonder what this world will come to !
Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine
LINES ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON.
Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell,
What pleasing themes thy page adorn,
Thy muse deserves the lasting meed;