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She loads the scale in melancholy mood,
Presents the evil, but forgets the good.
But if the beam some firmer hand suspends,
And good and evil load the adverse ends;
With strong libration, where the good abides,
Quick nods the beam, the ponderous gold subsides.

A VERNAL Ode.

[From POEMS by the Rev. HENRY MOORE.]

ON his car of light on high

Flaming down the gladden'd sky,

Which the new-born Zephyrs bear
Thro' the azure waste of air,
Dropping verdure, dropping joy,
As they wave the dewy wing,

Moves on, the smiling majesty of Spring.
His floating robe each splendid charm displays

Of colour, varied in a thousand ways;

Gay dance behind the Graces wreath'd with flowers,

Young Loves, and blooming Hopes, and bright-ey'd Hours;

The hills and vales their green array renew,

And all Elizium rises to the view;

O'er ev'ry mead the breath of fragrance flows;

O'er ev'ry grove the blush of beauty glows.

Maya's rosy fingers now

Cull the fairest flowers that blow,
And ev'ry balmy sweet combine
To form the wreath divine,

And consecrate the gift at Nature's sacred shrine.
The mighty Mother, bending from her throne,
Receives the fragrant boon,

And bids it her refulgent brows infold,
And breathe perfume around her locks of gold.

Hence, Sadness then, with sullen brow,
And gloomy thoughts that feed on woe!
Hence Discontent's corroded breast,
With all Heav'ns blessings still unblest!
While hill, and dale, and stream supply,
Whate'er can charm the ear, or eye,
Scenes where enthusiast Fancy strays,
Lost in wild Rapture's magic maze,
Indulge the genial hour, and taste
The thousand sweets of Nature's feast.

Let

Let Cheerfulness with golden ray Beam ev'ry cloud of care away; Let warm Benevolence expand the mind, And Nature's kindness teach us to be kind.

The Fairy-tribes, as village legends say,
From silent haunts of dale, and hill,
And pebbled fount, and rush-clad rill,
And tangled copse, and forest hoar,
Where Winter winds have ceas'd to roar,
Now hold their yearly holy-day.
Featly o'er the hallow'd ground
On the nimble toe they bound,
Ever in a magic round,

With rites and honours due to celebrate the May.
Corydon will shew the place,
And their tiny footsteps trace,
Where the grassy circle's seen,
Springing with a fresher green.

There in the secret shadowy glade,
When from yon mountain's azure head
The ling'ring gleams of parting day
Glimmer, faint, and fade away,
Sweet Philomel! thou bid'st to flow
Thy musical, thy melting woe.
Suspended o'er the sparkling stream,
Where plays the pale Moon's ever-trembling beam,
Attention stands with mute surprise,

With folded arms, and half-clos'd eyes,
And listens into ecstacies.

The sylvan Genius seems to guard the ground,
And all is soft enchantment round.

Hush'd is the hollow gale,

That lately whistled thro' the rustling woods;
The shrill wild warblings dying down the dale,
With the rude murmur mix'd of falling floods,
At that still solemn hour

Seize on the sense, and with mysterious pow'r
Of artless plaintive modulation, lull

In sweet and silent ravishment the Soul.
Charm'd are the passions, harmoniz'd the mind,
Calm as the glassy seas, while sleeps the wind.
O'er-wearied Labour feels no more his toils:
Dew-ey'd Sorrow, rous'd to hear,
Wipes away the starting tear:
Woe-worn Melancholy smiles,

And grim Despair, that beat her madding breast,
Forgets awhile that she was e'er unblest.

}

But

But when of dawn the rosy dyes
Brighten o'er the blushing skies,
And the gray clouds their robes unfold,
Streak'd with purple, edg'd with goldy
And their blended colours throw
On the glitt'ring lake below,

See! Health, the blooming village Maid,
Her cheek in native red array'd,
Her tresses gracefully untied,

Which shame the artful hand of Pride,
Sprightly o'er the spangled lawn
Comes tripping like the nimble fawn!
Then at her work, the streams along,
Rudely trills the rural song!
Content, that lightens ev'ry care,
Sits smiling in her chearful eye;
While Luxury with languid air
Leans on pale Envy pining by.

See Earth her Maker's milder image wear,
Profusely good, and exquisitely fair,
Spontaneous Graces catch the ravish'd view,
Scenes ever varying, beauties ever new.
The hills rejoice around, the vallies sing,
And e'en rough mountains gratulate the Spring,
While the gay quires, that haunt the shelt'ring shade,
Their untaught music mix, to glad the groves,
Where Contemplation, sweetly-pensive Maid,
With Peace and Rapture roves.

Rejoicing in the good, his hands bestow,
Th' Almighty Father looks well-pleas'd below;
But chief, his favourite work to see,
The pious, grateful, social Soul,
Where turned to Nature's harmony
The softest, sweetest passions roll;
That throbs in sympathy with woe,
That flames with friendship's holy glow,
That swells with wishes unconfin'd
To scatter blessings o'er Mankind,

And, in divine resembling lines imprest,
Loves his own image on the gen'rous breast.

PEACE

S

PEACE of MIND.

An Ode.

[From the same Work.]

WEET Peace, divinely mild !

Fair Innocence's child!

With looks of rapture such as Seraphs wear,
Come, graceful in thy hand
Waving thine olive wand,

And speaking melody, that charms Despair!
Come, and my passions' busy strife controul,
Breathe thy soft airs, and smooth my ruffled soul!

Here, while at Contemplation's fav'rite hour,
The meek-ey'd Eve, what time the ling'ring light
Yet glimmers o'er the sable of the night,
I feel thy soothing pow'r,

Be ev'ry blast, that shakes the rocking wood,
Howls o'er the hill, and plows the furrow'd flood,
Hush'd into rest; let Cynthia's sober beam

Shed o'er the calm expanse a silver gleam,
And o'er the groves, and meads, and slumb'ring main,
Deep solemn silence reign:

Save let the Zephyrs breathe,

Among the rushes whispering beneath;
Save let the wild notes of the rippling rill

In melancholy music tremble still;

And in hoarse murmur roar, the vales around,

The distant cataract's incessant sound.

Thou shunn'st Ambition's proud tumultuous heart,
Plotting to counteract some rival's art,

From project still to project tost,
"Till in the wild confusion lost;

Or tottering on the pinnacle of pow'r
On Fortune's airy steep,

While the rude storms, and thunders round him roar,
And trembling, lest the swelling blast should sweep
His glories to the foaming deep.

While Avarice, immur'd, alone
With midnight watches worn to bone,
Starting at ev'ry sound he hears,
And turning pale with fancied fears;
Wan Jealousy with squinting eyes,
And list'ning ears, and louring brow,
That in each nook, and corner pries,
Exploring, what he dreads to know;

And

And Envy, that with anguish keen
Feels the dire vulture gnaw within;
Dog-ey'd Resentment's boiling breast,
And pining Discontent, unblest
In full fruition, ask thy aid in vain,

For thou art still of Virtue's train.

To thee in vain the Tyrant prays,
To give his anxious bosom ease.
Invoking sleep's averted pow'r

On the gilt couch he lays his aching head,
But black Suspicion haunts the midnight hour,
And frowning demons flit around the bed.
Now music's tuneful charm he tries
To close his rest-forsaken eyes,

In all her modes of varied harmony,

And bids the plaintive lute conspire
With the full-resounding lyre,

To chear his madding mind with temper'd melody.

Borne aloft on rapture's tide
With sounding vigour now the numbers roll;
Tender tones now gently glide,

And melt, and sooth the soften'd soul.
"Peace! peace! perturbed breast!
"Let this sweet descant lull thee to thy rest."
It will not be then strike a bolder sound
Let the horn's mellow note

In air wildly float,

And wake the shrill echos around :

Or call the gay Graces, and laughing-eyed Pleasures To trip hand in hand to the pipe's merry measures. But, ah! each master-hand in vain

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