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“ Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,

“ The hamlet's little train behold; " Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,

" When thine the falling Thades unfold. “ Nor thee the hafty Thepherd heeds,

" When love has fill'd his heart with cares, “ For flowers he rifles all the meads,

“ For waking flowers—but thine forbears. " Ah! wafte no inore that beauteous bloom

“ On night's chill thade, that fragrant breath, « Let smiling funs those gems illume!

“ Fair flower, to live unseen is death !”

Soft as the voice of vernal gales,

That o'er the bending meadows blow, Or streams that steal through even vales,

And murmur that they more to now : Deep in her unfrequented buwer,

Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain; The bird of eve approv'd her flower,

And answered thus the anxious twain :

Live unseen!
By moon-light shades, in vallies green,

Lovely flower, we'll live unseen!
Of our pleasures deem not lightly,
Laughing day may look more 'prightly,

But I love the modest men,

Still I love the modeft mien
Of gentle Ev'ning fair, and her star-train'd queca.

Didk thou, Shepherd never find,
Pleasure is of pengve kind ?

Has thy cottage never known,
That she loves to live alone?
Doft thou not, at evening hour,
Feel fome soft and secret power,
Gliding o'er thy yielding mind,
Leave fweet serenity behind ;
While, all disarm'd, the cares of day
Steal through the falling gloom away?
Love to think thy lot was laid
In this undistinguish'd shade.
Far from the world's Infectious view,
Thy little virtues safely blew.
Go, and in day's more dangerous hour
Guard thy emblematic flower.

THE WALL-FLOWER.

From the Fables of Flora.

Why loves my flower, the sweetest flower,

" That swells the golden breast of May, “ Thrown rudely o'er yon ruind tower

“To waste her solitary day? * Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, The

grove and genial garden call, « Will the her fragrant soul exhale,

“ Unheeded on the lonely wall ? For never sure was beauty born

“To live in death's deferted thade ! " Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn, "My banks for life and beauty made."

Thus Pity wak'd the tender thought,

And by her sweet persuasion led To seize the hermit-flower I fought,

And bear her from her sony bed. I fought-but sudden on mine ear

A voice in hollow murmurs broke, And smote my heart with holy fear

The Genius of the Ruin spoke. 6. From thee be far th' ungentle deed,

". The honours cf the dead to spoil, " Or take the sole remaining meed,

« The flower that crowns their former toil! « Nor deem that flower the garden's foe,

“ Or fond to grace this barren frade ; 46 'Tis Nature tells her to bestow

“ Her honours on the lonely dead. « For this, obedient Zephyrs bear

“ Her light feeds round yon turret's mould, And undispers'd by tempests there,

“ They rise in vegetable gold. « Nor shall thy wonder wake to see

" Such desert scenes distinction crave; « Oft have they been, and oft shall be,

" Truth's, Honour's Valour's, Beauty's grave. " Where longs to fall that rifted spire,

As weary of th' insulting air ; €. The poet's thought, the warrior's fire,

6. The lover's fighs are fleeping there. his When that too shakes the trembling ground,

66 Born down by some tempestuous íky,

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" And many a Numbering cottage round

“ Startles-how still their hearts will lie ! “Of them who wrapt in earth so cold,

“ No more the finiling day shall view, " Should many a tender tale be told ;

For many a tender thought is due. “ Haft thou not seen some lover pale,

“When evening brought the pensive hour, " Step flowly o'er the shadowy vale,

“ And stop to pluck the frequent flower ? " Those flowers he surely meant to strew

“ On loft affection's lowly cell ; Though there, as fond remembrance grew,

"Forgotten, from his hand they fell. “ Has not for thee the fragrant thorn

“ Been taught her first rose to resign? "With vain but pious fondness borne

“ To deck thy Nancy's honour'd shrine ? " 'Tis Nature pleading in the breast,

“Fair memory of her works to find; " And when to fate she yields the rest,

« She claims the monumental mind. • Why, else, the o'er-grown paths of time,

“ Would thus the letter'd sage explore, “ With pain these crumbling ruins elimb,

“ And on the doubtful sculpture pore?
Why seeks he withi unwearied toil,
“ Through Death's dim walks to urge his

way, « Reclaim his long-asferted fpoil “And lead Oblivion into day?

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'Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear

“ Unmov'd, to range through Death's domain : “ The tender parent loves to hear

“ Her children's story told again. “ Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours,

If haply near these haunts he ftray; “ Nor take the fạir enlivening flowers

“ That bloom to cheer his lonely way.”

OGILVIE.

ODE,

TO MELANCHOLY, Hail, queen of thought sublime! propitious pow's! Who o'er th' unbounded waste art joy'd to roam, Led by the moon, when at the midnight hour Her pale rays tremble at the dulky gloom. O bear me, goddess, to thy peaceful feat! Whether to Hecla's cloud-wrapt brow convey'd, Or lodgʻd where mountains screen thy deep retreat, Or wandering wild through Chili's boundless shade. Say, rove thy steps o'er Lybia's naked waste? Or seek some distant folitary shore ; Or, on the Andes' topmost mountain plac'd, Doft fit, and hear the solemn thunder roar ? Fix'd on some hanging rock's projected brow, Hearst thou low murmurs from the distant dome? Or stray thy feet where pale dejected Woe Pours her long wail from some lamented tomb

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