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When dark design invades the cheerful hour,

And draws the heart with social freedom warm Its cares, its withes, and its thoughts to pour,

Smiling insidious with the hopes of harm. Vain man, to others' failings still severe,

Yet not one foible in himself can find; Another's faults to Folly's eye are clear,

But to her own e'en Wisdom's self is blind. O let me still, from these low follies free,

This fordid malice, and inglorious itrife, Myself the subject of my censure be,

And teach my heart to comment on my life. With thee, Philosophy, still let me dwell,

My tutor’d mind from vulgar .eanness fave; Bring Peace, bring Quiet to my humble cell,

And bid them lay the green turf on my grave.

ELEGY III. BUGAT o'er the green hills rose the morning ray,

The woodlark's rong resounded on the plain; Fair Nature felt the warm embrace of day,

And (mild through all her animated reign, When young Delight, of Hope and Fancy born,

His head on tufted wild thyme half-reclin'd, Caught the gay colours of the orient morn,

And thence of life this picture vain design'd. " ( born to thoughts, to pleasures more sublime

« Than beings of inferior nature prove ! " To triumph in the golden hours of time,

“ And feel the charms of Fancy and of Love!

“ High-favour'd Man! for bim unfolding fair

“: In orient light this native landscape fmiles; " For him (weet Hope disarms the hand of Care,

“ Exalts his pleasures, and his grief beguiles. " Blows not a blossom on the breast of Spring,

“ Breathes not a gale along the bending mead, Trills not a songfer of the soaring wing,

66 But fragrance, health, and melody fucceed. 6 let me still with simple Nature live,

My lowly field-flowers on her altar lay, “ Enjoy the blessings that the meant to give,

And calmly waste my inoffensive day! " No titled name, no en’vy-teasing dome,

“ No glittering wealth, my tutor'd wishes crave; “ So Health and l'eace be near my humble home,

" A cool stream murmur, and a green tree wave. So may the sweet Euterpe not disdain

" At Eve's chafie hour her filver lyre to bring; " The Muse of Pity wake her soothing strain,

" And tune to Sympathy the trembling string. " Thus glide the pensive moments, o'er the vale

" While foating shades of dusky night descend : “ Not left untold the lover's tender tale,

“ Nor unenjoy'd the heart-enlarging friend. 66 To love and friendhip flow the social bowl !

" To attic wit and elegance of mind; 66 To all the native beauties of the soul;

" The fimple charms of truth, and sense refin'd! 6. Then to explore whatever ancient sage

s Studious trom Nature's early volume drew,

* To chafe sweet Fiction through her golden age,

“ And mark how fair the sun-flower, Science, blew ! “ Haply to catch foine spark of eastern fire,

“ Hesperean fancy, or Aonian ease; “ Some melting note from Sappho's tender lyre,

“ Some strain that Love and Phæbus taught to please. “ When waves the grey light o'er the mountain's head,

" Then let me meet the morn's first beauteous ray; "Carelessly wander from my sylvan shed,

“ And catch the sweet breath of the rising day. " Nor seldom, loitering as I muse along,

“Mark from what flower the breeze its sweetness bore; " Or listen to the labour-soothing song

“ Of bees that range the thymy uplands o'er. " Slow let me climb the mountain's airy brow,

“ The green height gain’d, in museful rapture lie, Sleep to the murmur of the woods below,

" Or look on Nature with a lover's eye. " Delightful hours ! O thus for ever flow;

“ Led by fair Fancy round the varied year: " So hall my breast with native raptures glow,

" Nor feel one pang from folly, pride, or fear. “ Firm be my heart to Nature and to truth,

“ Nor vainly wander from their dictates sage; “ So Joy shall triumph on the brows of Youth,

“ So Hope hall imooth the dreary paths of Age.

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ELEGY IV.
Oh! yet, ye dear deluding Vifions, ftay!
Fond hopes ! of Innocence and Fancy born!

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For you ('ll cast these waking thoughts away,

For one wild dream of life's romantic morn. Ah! no: the sunshine o'er each objec spread,

By flattering Hope, the flowers that blew fo fair, Like the gay gardens of Armida fled,

And vanith'd from the powerful rod of Care. So the poor pilgrim, who in rapturous thought

Plains his dear journey to Loretto's fhrine, Seems on his way hy guardian seraphs brought,

Sees aiding angels favour his defign. Ambrosial blossoms, such of old as blew

By those fresh founts on Eden's happy plain, And Sharon's roses all his passage strew :

So Fancy dreams; but Fancy's dreams are vain. Wasted and weary on the mountain's fide,

His way unknown, the hapless pilgrim lies,
Or takes sone ruthless robber for his guide,

And prone beneath his cruel sabre dies.
Life's morning-landscape, gilt with orient light,

Where Hope, and Joy, and Fancy hold their reign, The grove's green wave, the blue stream sparkling bright,

The blithe hours dancing round Hyperion's wain, In radiant colours youth's free hand pourtrays,

Then holds the flattering tablet to his eye; Nor thinks how foon the vernal grove decays,

Nor sees the dark cloud gathering o'er the sky, Hence Fancy conquer'd by the dart of Pain,

And wandering far from her Platonic shade, Mourns o'er the ruins of her transient reign,

Nor udrepining sees her visions fade,

Their parent banifh’d, hence her children fiy,

The fairy race that øll'd her festive train ;
Joy tears his wreath, and Hope inverts her eye,

And Folly wonders that her dream was vain.

THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

From the Fables of Flora.

There

are that love the shades of life, And Thun the fplendid walks of fame; There are that hold it rueful ftrife

To risque Ambition's lofing game : That far from Envy's lurid eye

The fairest fruits of Genius rear, Content to see them bloom and die

In Friendship's small, but genial, fphere. Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far,

The Evening Primrose shuns the day; Blooms only to the western star,

And loves its solitary ray. In Eden's vale an aged hind,

At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd,

With wonder view'd the opening flower. « Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow !"

In pity's simple thought he cries ;
Thy bosom must not feel the glow
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies.

K.

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