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Noise that thro' a trumpet fpeaks,
Laughter in loud peals that breaks,
Intrusion with a fopling's face,
(Ignorant of time and place)
Sparks of fire Diftention blowing,
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing,
Retraint's ftiff neck, Grimace's leer,
Squint-ey'd Censure's artful sneer,
Ambition's buskins steep'd in blood,
Fly thy presence, Solitude.

Sage Reflection bent with years,
Conscious Virtue void of fears,
Muffled Silence wood-nymph-thy,
Meditation's piercing eye,
Halcyon Peace on moss reclin'd,
Retrospect that scans the mind,
Rapt carth-gazing Refvery,
Blufhing artless Modesty,
Health that fnuffs the morning air,
Full-ey'd Truth with bofom bare,
Inspiration, Nature's child,
Seek the folitary wild.

You with the tragic Muse retir'd
The wise Euripides inspir'd;

* In the island Salamis.


You taught the sadly-pleasing air
That & Athens sav'd from ruins bare.
You gave the Cean's tears to flow,
And h unlock'd the springs of woe;
You penn'd what exil'd Naso thought,
And pour’d the melancholy note.
With Petrarch o'er Valcluse you stray'd,
When Death snatch'd his i long-lov'd maid ;
You taught the rocks her loss to mourn,
You ftrew'd with flowers her virgin urn.
And late in * Hagley you were seen,
With bloodshed eyes, and sombre mien,
Hymen his yellow vestment tore,
And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore.
But chief your own the solemn lay
That wept Narcissa young and gay,
Darkness clap'd her sable wing,
While you touch'd the mournful Atring,
Anguith left the pathless wild,
Grim-fac'd Melancholy smild,
Drowsy Midnight ceas'd to yawn,
The starry hoft put back the dawn,
Aside their harps ev'n Seraphs flung
To hear thy sweet complaint, O Young.

See Plutarch in the life of Lysander. h Simonides.

Laura, twenty years, and ten after her death. * Monody on the death of Mrs. Lyttleton, P4

V. When V.

When all Nature's hulh'd asleep,
Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep,
Soft you leave your cavernd den,
And wander o'er the works of men,
But when Phosphor brings the dawn
By her dappled coursers drawn,
Again you to the wild retreat
And the early huntsman meet,
Where as you pensive pace along,
You catch the distant shepherd's song,
Or brush from herbs the pearly dew,
Or the rising primrose view.
Devotion lends her heaven-plum'd wings,
You mount, and Nature with you fings.
But when mid-day fervors glow,
To upland airy shades you go,
Where, never sunburnt woodman came,
Nor sportsman chas'd the timid game;
And there beneath an oak reclind,
With drowsy waterfalls behind,
You sink to rest.
'Till the tuneful bird of night
From the neighboring poplars height
Wake you with her solemn strain,
And teach pleas’d Echo to complain.

With you roses brighter bloom
Sweeter every sweet perfume,


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Purer every

fountain flows Stronger every wilding grows.

Let those toil for gold who please,
Or for fame renounce their ease.
What is fame?' an empty bubble,
Gold ? a tranfient, shining trouble.
Let them for their country bleed,
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed?
Man's not worth a moment's pain,
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain.
Then let me, fequefter'd fair,
To your Sibyl grot repair,
On yon hanging cliff it stands
Scoop'd by Nature's falvage hands,
Bosom'd in the gloomy shade
Of cypress not with age decay'd.
Where the owl still-hooting fits,
Where the bat incessant flits,
There in loftier strains I'll fing
Whence the changing feasons spring,
Tell how storms deform the kies,
Whence the waves subside and rise,
Trace the comet's blazing tail,
Weigh the planets in a scale ;
Bend, great God, before thy shrine,
The bournless macrocosm's thine.

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Save me! what's


shrouded shade?
That wanders in the dark brown glade.
It beckons me !---vain fears' adieu,
Mysterious ghoft, I follow you.
Ah me! too well that gait I know,
My youth's first friend, my manhood's woc!
Its breast it bares ! what! ftain'd with blood ?
Quick let me stanch the vital flood.
Oh spirit, whither art thou flown?
Why left me comfortless alone?
O Solitude on me bestow,
The heart-felt harmony of woe,
Such, such, aś on th’ Ausonian fhore,
Sweet! Dorian Moschus trill d'of yore:
No time should cancel thy desért,
More, more, than m Bion was, thou wert.

O goddess of the tearful eye,
The never-ceasing stream supply.
Let us with Retirement go
To charnels, and the house of woe,
O’er Friendship’s herse low.drooping mourn,
Where the fickly tapers burn,
Where Death.and nun-clad Sorrow dwell,
And nightly ring the solemn knell.

I See Idyll.
* Alluding to the death of a friend.


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