Oh sacred art, to which alone life owes
Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful clofe,
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 grief,
Loft 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,
Divine 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,

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To distant caves the lonely wand'rer fies,
To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies.
Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice,
Hear him, o'erwhelm’d with forrow, yet rejoice;
No womanish or wailing grief has part,
No, not a moment, in his royal heart;
'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make,
Suff’ring with gladness for a Saviour's fakes
His foul exults, hope animates his lays,
The sense of mercy kindles into praise,
And 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
Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursu'd ;
To study culture, and with artful toil
To meliorate and tame the stubborn fuil;
To give diffimilar 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 fow'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 ftain 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 flow winding Ouse;
Content if, thus sequeiter'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 wisely, may not waste my own.

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THE DOVE S.....!


.:;' I. ! Reas’ning at every step he treads,

Man yet mistakes his way, i While meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray. :;. :'.'.

II. . .. en One silent eve I wander'd late,

And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus address’d her måte, .
And sooth’d the listning 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 eyes;

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 fo, As being shar'd with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees,

Or kites are hoy'ring near,
I fear left thee alone they seize,

And know no other fear,


'Tis then I feel myself a wife,

And press thy wedded fide, Resolv'd an union form’d for life

Death never shall divide,

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