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Old Goodman Dobson of the green,
Remembers, he the trees bath seen;
Ile'll talk of them from morn to night,
And goes with folks to shew the sight.
On Sunday, after ev’ning prayer,
Ile gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
* Here Baucis, there Philemon grew;
* Till once, a parson of our town,
"To mend his brain cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev'd;
"Grew scrubby, died at top, was stunted;
“So the next parson stubb’d and burnt it.”
H happiness! our being's end and aim;
Good, pleasure, ease, content! whatever thy name,
That something still which prompts the eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die:
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O’erlook’d, seen double by the fool, and wise;
Plant of celestial seed ! if drop'd below,
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow :
Fair opening to some courts propitious shrine;
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?
Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
Or heap'd in iron harvests of the field ?
Where grows? where grows it not ? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.
Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere?
Tis no where to be found, or every where.
Order is heaven's first law: and this confest.
Some are and must be greater than the rest :
More rich more wise. But who infers from hence
That such are happier, shocks all common sense;
Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,
If all are equal in their happiness.
But mutual wants this happiness increase;
All nature's difference keep's all nature's peace.
Condition, circumstances, is not the thing;
Bliss is the same, in subject or in king;
In who obtain defence, or who defend;
In him who is, or him, who finds a friend.
Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,
And these be happy, call’d anhappy, thøje;
But heaven's just balance equal will appear,
While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear:
Nor present good or ill, the joy or curse,
But future views of better, or of worse.
Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise,
By mountains pild on mountains to the skies?
Heaven still with laughter, the vain toil surveys,
And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.
Know, all the good that individuals find,
Or god and nature meant to mere mankind.
Reasons whole pleasure, all the joys of sense
Lie in three words--Health, Peace, and Competence.
Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam wak’d; so custom’d; for his sleep
Was airy, light from pure digestion bred,
And temperate vapours bland, which the only sound
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
Lightly dispers’d, and the shrill matin song
Of birds on every bough. So much the more
His wonder was to find unawaken' Eve
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,
As though unquiet rest. He on his side
Leaning half rais'd with looks of cordial love,
Hung over her enamour'd; and beheld
Beauty, which whether waking or asleep
Shot forth peculiar graces. Then with voice
Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whisper'd thus-Awake,
My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found :
Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight,
Awake ! - The morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls We loose the prime ; to mark how spring
Our tended plants; how blows the citron grove;
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed :
• How nature paints her colour : how the bee
Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet.'
Soliloquy and Prayer of Edward the Black Prince, before thre.
Battle of Poictiers.
HE hour advances, the decisive hour
Or leaves me on the earth a breathless corpse, 'The buzz and bustle of the field before me;
The twang of bow-strings, and the clash of spears;
With ev'ry circumstance of preparation ;
Strike with an awful horror ! -Shouts are echo'd,
To drown dismay, and blow up resolution
Ev'n to its utmost swell-From hearts so firm,
Whom dangers fortify, and toils inspire,
What has a leader not to hope ?--And yet,
The weight of apprehension sinks me down.---
0, soul of Nature ! great Eternal Cause! Who gave and govern’st all that's here below! 6'Tis by the aid of thine Almighty arm
The weak exist, the virtuous are secure. 'If to your sacred laws obedient ever, My sword, my soul, have owned no other guide:
Oh! if your honour, is the rights of men, My country's happiness, my king's renown, Were motives worthy of a warrior’s zeal, Crown your poor servant with success this day : * And be the praise and glory all thy own.'
Invocation to Paradise lost.
F man's disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater man
Restore us and regain the blissful seat,
Sing heav'nly muse! that on the sacred top
Or Oreb, or of Sini, did'st inspire
That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed,
In the beginning how the heavens and earth
Rose out of Chaos : or, if Sion hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flow'd,
East by the oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my advent'rous song,
That, with no middle flight intends to soar
Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
And chiefly thou O spirit! that dost prefer
Before all temples the upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for thou knowest : thou from the first,
Was present and with mighty wings outspread,
Dove-like, sat'st brooding o'er the vast abyss,
And mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark,
Illumine: what is low, raise and support;
That, to the height of this great argument
I may assert eternal providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.
THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty ! thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous; fair: thyself how wond'rous, then,
Unspeakable! who sit'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodnes beyond thought, and power divine,
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light.
Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heaven!
On earth, join all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars ! last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of praise.
Thou sun! of this great world both eye
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou clim'st,
And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou fallest.
Moon! that now meetest the orient sun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires ! that move
In mystic dance, not without song
His praise, who out of darkness, calld up light.
Air, and ye elements ! the eldest birth
Of nature's womb that in quarternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform and mix
And nourish all things : let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker, still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author, rise;
Whether to deck with clouds, the uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds ! that from four quarters blow
Breathe soft or loud! and wave your tops ye pines !
With ev'ry plant in sign of worship wave.
Fountains! and ye that warble as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds,
That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings, and in your notes, his praise--
Ye that in waters glide ! and ye that walk
F'he earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep!
Witness if I be silent morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Nade vocal by my song, and taught his praise.-
flail, universal Lord! be bounteous still,
To give us only good: and if the night
Have gather'd ought or evil, or conceal'd
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
BY DR. BEATTIE.
T the close of the day when the hamlet is still
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent, is heard on the hill;
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;
'Twas then by the cave of the fountain afar,
A hermit his song of the night thus began;
No more with himself, or with nature at war,
Ile thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.
"Ah! why thus abandon’d to darkness and woe,
• Why thus lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain ?
“For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
Yet if Pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay;
Mourn sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn :
O! soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away-
Full quickly they pass--but they never return.
Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon, half extinguish'd her crescent displays :
But lately I mark'd when majestic on high
• She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb! and with gladness pursue
• The path that conducts thee to splendour again
“But man's faded glory no change shall renew :
Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain.
" 'Tis night; and the landscape is lovely no more ;
woodlands ! I mourn not for you ; For moin is approaching, your charms to restore, "Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew, Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; • Kind nature the embryo blossom will save But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! • Or when shall it dawn on the night of the grave !