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MUSINGS

On the WIG of a SCARE-CROW.

Alas for this world's changes and the lot

Of sublunary things ! yon wig that there

Moves with each motion of the inconstant air, Invites my pensive mind to serious thought. Was it for this its curious caw) was wrought

Close as the tender tendrils of the vine With clustered curls ? Perhaps the artist's care Its borrowed beauties for some Lady fair

Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine ;

Or for the forehead fram'd of some Divine Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey ;

Or whether on some stern Schoolmaster's brow

Sate its white terrors, who shall answer now? On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day

Have those dishonour'd locks endur'd the rains And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow, Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow,

Till of its former form no trace remains, None of its ancient honours ! I survey

Its alter'd state with moralizing eye, And journey sorrowing on my lonely way, And muse on Fortune's mutability.

THEODORIT.

To a YOUNG MAN,

Who considered the perfeâion of human nature as consisting in

the vigor and indulgence of the more boisterous passions.

By CHARLES LLOYD.

This is not pleasure ! can’st thou look within
And
say

that thou art blest ? at close of day
Canst thou retire to thy fire-side alune,
Quiet at heart, nor heeding aught remote,
The power of wine, or power of company,
To fill thy human cravings? hast thou left
Some treasured feelings, unexhausted loves,
Thoughts of the past, and thoughts of times to come,
Mingled with sweetness all and deep content,
For Solitude's grave moment ? Canst thou tell
Of the last sun-set how 'twas freak'd with clouds,
With clouds of shape sublime and strangest hues ?
Canst thou report the storm of yester-night,

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Its dancing flashes and its growling thunder?
And canst thou call to mind the colourless moon,
What time the thin cloud half obscured the stars
Muffling them, till the Spirit of the Night
Let slip its shadowy surge, and in the midst
One little gladdening twinkler shook its locks ?

Oh have these things within thee aught besides Human remembrance ? Have they passion, love? Do they enrich thy dreams, and to thy thoughts Add images of purity and peace

? It is not so, cannot be so, to those Who in the revels of the midnight cup, Or in the wanton's lap, lavish the gift, God's supreme gift, the motion, and the fire, That stirs, and warms the faculty of thought ! If thou defile thyself, that joy minute, Deep, silent, simple, dignified, yet mild, Must never be thy portion ! Thou hast lost That most companiable and aweful sense, That sense which tells us of a God in Heaven And beauty on the earth : that sense which lends A voice to silence, and to vacancy A multitude of shapes and hues of life!

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Go then, relinquish pleasure, would'st thou know
The throb of happiness, relinquish wine,
And greedy lust, and greedier imagings
Of what may constitute the bliss of man!
Oh! tis a silent and a quiet power,
An unobtrusive power, that winds itself
Into all moods of time and circumstance!
It smiles, and looks serene; in the clear eye
It speaks refreshing things, but never words
It makes its instruments, and flies away.
As 'twere polluted, from the soul that dares
To waste God's dear endowments heedlessly,
And without special care that present joy
May bring an after-blessing.

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