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But Hymen's kinder flames unite;

And burn for ever one;
Chalte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,

Productive as the Sun.

SE MICHORUS.
Oh source of ev'ry social tye,

25 United wish, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,
As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend?

Whether his hoary fire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arife;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his smiling progeny;
What tender passions take their turns,

What home-felt raptures move ?
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,

With rev’rence, hope, and love.

30

36

CHORUS.

Hence guilty joys, diftaftes, furmizes,

Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprizes ;

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine :
Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Conítant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure ;

Sacred Hymen !. these are thine.

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OD E on SOLITUDE:

APPY the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread; 5

Whofe flocks fupply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

10

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound Neep by night; study and ease,

Together mixt ; sweet recreation : And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

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Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone,

Tell where I lie. a This was a very early production of our Author, written al about twelve years old,

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The dying Christian to his Soul. |

O DE

I.
IT AL spark of heav'nly flame :

Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, Aying,

Oh the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.

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II.
Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite ?

Steals my senses, thuts my fight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death ?

IQ

III.
The world recedes ; it disappears !
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears

With founds feraphic ring :
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount! I fy!
O Grave ! where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting?

15

AN

E S S A Y

ON

CRITICIS M.

Written in the Year MDCC IX.

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