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Not fo the nights that in thy halls,

Once, Rosline, danc'd in joy along : Where owls now scream along thy walls,

Resounded mirth-inspiring fong.

Where bats now reft their footy wings,

Th’impurpl'd feast was wont to flow; And beauty danc'd in graceful rings,

And princes fat, where nettles grow.

What now avails, how great? how gay?

How fair, how fine, their matchless dames? Here sleeps their undiftinguish'd clay;

And e'en the stones have loft their names.

And yon gay crouds must soon expire,

Unknown, unprais'd, each fair-one's name! Not so the charms that bards infpire;

Increasing years increase their fame.

Oh, Mira! what is state or wealth ?

The great can never love like me! Wealth adds not days, nor quickens health,

Then, wiser thou, come happy be!

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N Higham Hill, when prospects fair

Salute the wand'ring fight,
I love to breathe the morning air,

And sleep the summer night:
There, how charming 'tis to wake

When filver Cynthia reigns ! Whilft Philomel, from fiow'ry brake,

Pours forth her love-lorn strains :

1

Then, oh! then, I love to rise,

And trace the broom-clad hill; Whilst thro' the stillness softly flies

The whispers of the rill;
Nor else is heard to interpose,

From dingle, buth, or dale,
Save Thames, soft kiffing, as he goes,

The rulh-embroider'd vale.

As down the flope I traverfe then,

I scan with curious eye
The wonders Heav'n presents to men,

And wish the atheist by:
His mind, howe'er impervious grown

To theologick lore,
With me, I think, would quickly own

A supernatural Pow'r!

When business dulls the mental pow'rss

To Higham Hill I run,
And with the breath of op'ning flow'rs

There hail the rising fur.

Then

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TwА

WAS at the royal feaft, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike fon ;

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero fate

On his imperial throne :
His valiant peers were plac'd around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound;

(So should desert in arms be crown'd.)
The lovely Thaïs by his fide,
Sat like a blooming Eastern bride,
În Aow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair !

None but the brave,

None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, plac'd on lrigh,

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre ;
The trembling notes afcend the sky,
And heavenly joys in Spire.

3 L

The

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