Oh sacred art, to which alone life owes

Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close,

Scorn'd in a world, indebted to that scorn

For evils daily felt and hardly born,

Not knowing thee, we reap, with bleeding hands,

Flow'rs of rank odour upon thorny lands,

And, while experience cautions us in vain,

Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain.

Despondence, self-deserted in her griefi

Lost by abandoning her own relief,

Murmuring and ungrateful discontent,

That scorns afflictions mercifully meant,

Those humours tart as wines upon the fret,

"Which idleness and weariness beget;

These, and a thousand plagues that haunt the breast,

Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest,

Pi vine communion chases, as the day

Drives to their dens th' obedient beasts of prey.

See Judah's promis'd king, bereft of all,

Driv'n out an exile from the face of Saul,

To distant caves the lonely wand'rer flies,
To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies.
Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice,
Hear him, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice;
No womanish or wailing grief has part,
No, not a moment, in his royal heart;
•'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make,
Susf'ring with gladness for a Saviour's fake;
His foul exults, hope animates his laysf
The fense of mercy kindles into praise,
,A.nd wilds, familiar with the lion's roar,
Ring with extatic founds unheard before;
'Tis love like his that can alone defeat
The foes of man, or make a desert sweet,

Religion does not censure or exclude
Unnumbered pleasures harmlessly pursu'd;
To study culture, and with artful toil
To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil;
To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands
The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands;
To cherish virtue in an humble state,
And share the joys your bounty may create;
To mark the matchless workings of the pow'r
That shuts within its feed the future flow'r,
Bid these in elegance of form excel,
In colour these, and those delight the smell,
Sends nature forth the daughter of the skies,
To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes;
To teach the canvass innocent deceit,
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet—
These, these are arts pursu'd without a crime,
That leave no stain upon the wing of time.

Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aim
Feebly and vainly at poetic fame)
Employs, shut out from more important views,
Fast by the banks of the slow winding Ousei
Content if, thus sequester'd, I may raise
A monitor's, though not a poet's praise,
And while I teach an art too little known,
To close life wifely, may not waste my own.


. .' I.

Reas'ning at every step he treads,

Man yet mistakes his way, While meaner things, whom instinct leads,

Are rarely known to stray.


One silent eve I wander'd late,
And heard the voice of love;
The turde thus address'd her mate,

And sooth'd the list'ning dove—

. (.'.


Our mutual bond of faith and truth*

No time shall disengage;
Those blessings of our early youth,

Shall cheer our latest age:


While innocence without disguise,

And constancy sincere,
Shall fill the circles of those eyesj

And mine can read them there;


Those ills that wait on all below

Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or, gently felt, and only so,

As being shar'd with thee.


When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hov'ring near,

I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear,


fTis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side,

Jlesolv'd an union form'd foe life
Death never shall divide.

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