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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 fpurn 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 ftate ;
And bless our humbler lot.
For nature's calls are few :
And make that little do.
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
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.
But when our feast is o'er,
The relics of our store.
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.