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Who with mock-patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain, and that alone, cm cure ;
How would you bear in real pain to lie,
Delpis'd, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?

Such is that room which onu rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides ;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie berween ;
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempelt, yet excludes the day :
Here on a matted Auck, with duft o'eripread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head.
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes :
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

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CRABBE.

SECTION VI.

YOUNG

A Summer Evening's Meditation.
“ One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine.”
'Tis past! the sultry tyrant of the south
Has spent his short liv'd rage. More grateful hours
Move silent on. The fkies no more repel
The dazzled sight ; but, with mild maiden beams
Of temper'd light. invite the cherish'd eye
To wander o'er their sphere ; where, hung aloft,
Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow
New Atrung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns,
Impatient for the night, and seems to push
Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines
E'en in the eye of day, with sweetest beam
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood
Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks.
The shadows spread apace ; while meeken'dere,
Her cheek yet warm with bluthes, flow relires
Thro' the Hesperian gardens of the west,
And shuts the gates of day. 'Tis now the hour
When contemplation, from her sunless haunts,
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth
Of unpierc'd woods, where, wrapt ic. Glent shade,
She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon,

And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the fun,
Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points
To yon blue concave, swell’d by breath divine,
Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether
One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires,
And dancing luftres, where th' unsteady eye,
Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd
O'er all this field of glories : fpacious field,
And worthy of the Master ! he whose hand,
With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile,
Inícrib'd the mystic tablet, hung on high
To public gaze; and said, Adore, O man,
The finger of thy God! From what

pure

wells
Of milky light, what fost o'erflowing urn,
Are all these lamps fo fill'a ? these friendly lamps,
Forever streaming o'er the azure deep,
To point our path, and light us to our home.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres !
And filent as the foot of time, fulfil
Their destin'd courses. Nature's self is hush'd,
And, but a scatter'd leaf, which ruitles thro'
The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard
To break the midnight air ! tho' the rais'd ear,
Intensely listning, drinks in every breath.
How deep the fiience, yet how loud the praise !
But are they silent all? or is there not
A tongue in every star that talks with man,
And woos him to be wife : nor woos in vain :
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,
And wisdom mounts her zenith with the Itars.
At this still hour the felt-collected foul
Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there
Of high defcent, and more than mortal rank;
An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine,
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun
(Fair tranfitory creature of a day,)
Has clos'd his golden eye, and wrapt in shades,
Forgets his wonted journey thro' the east.

Ye citadels of light, and feats of bliss !
Perhaps my future home, from whence the foal,
Revolving periods past, may oft look back,
With recollected tenderness, on all
The various busy scenes the left below,

Its deep laid projects, and its strange events,
As on some fond and doting tale that fooch'd
Her infant hours. - be it lawful now
To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts,
And, with mute wonder and delighted awe,
Approach your burning congines !-Seiz'd in thought,
On fancy's wild and roving wing I fail
From the green borders of the peopled earth,
And the pale moon, her dutious fair attendant ;
From folitary Mars ; from the valt orb
Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk
Dances in ether like the lightest 'leaf;
To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system,
Where cheerless Saturn, 'midit his wat'ry moons,
Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp,
Sits like an exil'd monarch. Fearless thence
I launch into the trackless deeps of space,
Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear,
Of elder beam ; which ask no leave to shine
Of our terrestrial Itar, por borrow light
From the proud regent of our scanty day :
Sons of the morning, first-born of creation,
And only less than he who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop,
Or is there aught beyond ? What hand unseen
Impels me opward, thro' the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To folitudes of valt unpeopled space,
The deserts of creation, wide and wild,
Where embryo systems and ubkindled funs
Sleep in the womb of chaos ? Fancy droops, -
And thought astonish'd stops her bold career.
But, oh, thou mighty MIND! whose pow'rful word
Said, Thus let all things be, and ihus they were,
Where shall I seek thy presence ? how, unblam'd,
Invoke thy dread perfection ?
Have the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee?
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion
Support thy throne ? O look with pity down
On erring, guilty man! not in thy names
Of terror clad ; not with those thunders arm'd
That'conscious Sinai felt, when fear appallid
The scatter'd tribes ; thou hast a gentler voice;

That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,
Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.

But now, my soul, unus'd to itretch her pow'rs
In flig'it so daring, drops her weary wing,
And feeks again the known accustom'd spot,
Dreft up with fun, and shade, and lawns, and streams ;
A mansion fair and spacious for its guest,
And full replete with wonders. Let me here,
Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time,
And ripen for the skies : the hour will come
When all thefe fplendours, bursting on my fight,
Shall stand unveil'd, and 10 my ravish'd sense
Unlock the glories of the world unknown. BARBAVLD.

SECTION VII.

Cheerfulness:
Fair as the dawning light ! auspicious guest,
Source of all comfort to the human breast !
Depriv'd of thee, in fad despair we moan,
And tedious roll the heavy moments on.
Though beauteous objects all around us rise,
To charm the fancy, and delight the eyes ;
Tho' art's fair works and nature's gifts conspire
To please each sense, and satiate each desire,
'Tis joyless all-till thy enlivening ray
Scatters the melancholy gloom away.
Then opens to the soul a heavenly scene,
Gladness and peace, all sprightly, all ferene.
Where dost thou deign, say, in what blest retreat,
To choose thy mansion, and to fix thy feat ?
Thy sacred presence how shall we explore ?
Can av'rice gain thee with her golden store?
Can vain ambition, with her boasted charms,
Tempt thee within her wide-extended arms?
No, with content alone canst thou abide,
Thy filter, ever smiling by thy fide.

When boon companions, void of every care,
Crown the full bowl, and the rich banquet share,
And give a loose to pleasure-art thou there?
Or when the assembled great and fair advance
To celebrate the mask, the play, the dance,
Whilft beauty spreads its sweetest charms around,
And airs ecstatic swell their tuneful found,
Art thou within the pompous circle found ?

}

}

Does not thy influence more sedately shine ?
Can such tumultuous joys as these be thine ?
Surely more mild, more constant in their course,
Thy pleasures issue from a nobler source ;
From sweet discretion ruling in the breaft,
From paffions temper'd, and from lusts repreit;
From thoughts unconscious of a guilty smart,
And the calm transports of honelt heart.

Thy aid, O ever faithful, ever kind !
Thro' life, thro' death, attends the virtuous mind :
Of angry fate wards from us ev'ry blow,
Cures every ill, and softens every wo.
Whatever good our mortal ftate defires,
What wisdom finds, or innocence inspires ;
From nature's bounteous hand whatever flows,
Whate'ér our Maker's providence bestows,
By thee mankind enjoys ; by thee repays
A grateful tribute of perpetual praise. FITZGERALD.

SECTION VIII.

Providence.
Lo! now the ways of heaven's eternal King
To man are open !
Review them and adore ! Hear the loud voice
Of wisdom founding in her works !-"Attend,
Ye fons of men ! ye children of the dust,
Be wise ! Lo! I was present, when the Sire
Of heaven pronounc'd his fiat ; when his eye
Glanc'd thro' the gulf of darkness, and his hand
Fashion'd the rising universe ;-I saw,
O'er the fair lawns, the heaving mountains raise
Their pine-clad spires ; and down the shaggy cliff
I
gave

the rill to murmur. The rough mounds
That bound the madd’ning deep ; the form that roars
Along the defert; the volcano fraught
With burning brimstone ; I prescribe their ends.
I rule the rushing winds, and, on their wings
Triumphant, walk the tempeft,—To my call
Obsequious bellows the red bolt, that tears
The cloud's thin mantle, when the gushing showet
Descending copious bids the desert bloom.

I gave to man's dark search superior light ; And clear'd dim reason's milty view, to mark His powers, as through revolving ages tried, .

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