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“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutiring his wayward fancies, he would rove; « Now drooping, woeful wan! like one forlorn,
“ Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. * One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
" Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; " Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
“ Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he: “ The next, with dirges due, in fad array,
“ Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne : “ Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the Jay
“ Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn :
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear;
He gain’d from Heav'n ('twas all he wish’d) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his Göd.
. THE FIRE-SIDE.
BY DR. COTTON.
DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In Folly's maze advance ;
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
Where love our hours employs :
To spoil our heart-felt joys.
And they are fools who roam :
And that dear hut, our home.
That safe retreat, the ark; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more
Explor'd the sacred bark. Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know,
A paradise below.
Whence pleasures ever rise :
And train them for the skies. While they our wiseft hours engage, They'll joy our youth, fupport our age,
And crown our hoary hairs :
And recompense our cares.
Or by the world forgot":
Monarchs ! we envy not your state;
And bless our humbler lot.
For nature's calls are few :
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
Nor lose the prefent hour. To be resign'd when ills betide, Patient when favours are deny'd,
And pleas’d with favours giv'n; Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part; This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heav'n.
But when our feast is o'er,
The relics of our store.
Thus hand and hand, through life we'll go; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe,
With cautious steps, we'll tread;
And mingle with the dead.
And cheer our dying breath;
And smooth the bed of death.
A THOUGHT UPON DEATM.
IS vain, my soul, 'tis impious all,
The human lot to mourn,
And dust to dust return.
When once 'tis understood;
And is, and must be, good.
And void of cares his breaft,
Each night to wholesome rest.
No guilty starts furprize;
All free and cheerful rise.
Nor gall’d with anxious strife,
The plain intent of life.
And ufefully employ,
Is rest, and peace, and joy.
To a BEAUTIFUL SPRING in a VILLAGE.
BY S. T. COLERIDGE.
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn,)
navies on thy waveless breast.