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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 :

THE EPITAPH.

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 ;
Though singularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,

Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs :
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own felves our joys must How,

And that dear hut, our home.
Of reft was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing, she left,

That safe retreat, the ark; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more

Explor'd the sacred bark. Though fools fpurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives, to the tender and the good,

A paradise below.
Our babes shall richest comforts bring ;
If tutord right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise:
We'll form their minds, with studious care,
To all that manly, good, and fair,

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 :
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,

And recompense our cares.
No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,

Or by the world forgot:

Monarchs! we envy not your ftate ;
We look with pity on the great,

And bless our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!

For nature's calls are few :
In this the art of living lies,
To want so more than may fuffice,

And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish, with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present 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.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter's life is seldom sweet;

But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our fons, with envious eyes,

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;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.
While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,

And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.

A THOUGHT UPON DEATM.

BY FITZGERALD

'T'S

IS vain, my soul, 'tis impious all,

The human lot to mourn,
That life so soon must fleet away,

And dust to dust return.
Alas! from death the terrors fly,

When once 'tis understood;
'Tis nature's call-'tis God's decree-

And is, and must be, good.
Weary'd his limbs with honest toil,

And void of cares his breaft,
See how the lab’ring hind Sinks down

Each night to wholesome rest.
No nauseous fumes perplex his sleep,

No guilty starts furprize;
The visions, that his fancy forms,

All free and cheerful rise.
So thou, nor led by lusts astray,

Nor gall’d with anxious strife,
With virtuous industry fulfil

The plain intent of life.
Pass calmly thy appointed day,

And ufefully employ,
And then thou’rt sure, whate'er succeed

Is rest, and peace, and joy.

To a BEAUTIFUL SPRING in a VILLAGE.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE.

ONCE
NCE more, sweet stream ! with flow foot wandring

near,
I bless thy milky waters, cold and clear.
Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours,
With one fresh garland of Pierian flow'rs,

(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn,)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn:
For not through pathless grove, with murmur rude,
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude :
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to dwell,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the vale! thy useful ftreams fupply
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks,
With infant uproar, and soul-Soothing pranks,
Releas’d from school their little hearts at reft,
Launch
paper

navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve, with pensive look,
Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crook ;
Or, starting, pauses, with hope-mingled dread,
To lift the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread :
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-filld pitcher in her hand.
Unboaltful stream! thy font, with pebbled falls,
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning fun of hope arose,
And all was joy; fave when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul impress’d,
Like passing clouds ímpieurd on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silv'ry stole beneath the pensive moon.
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts, and foams along!.

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