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Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.

My books, the best relief

In every other grief,
Are now with your idea fadden'd all :
Each fav’rite author we together read
My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind :
The rolling year its various course perform'd,

And back return'd again ;
Another, and another, smiling came,
And saw our happinefs unchang'd remain,

Still in her golden chain
Harmonious concord did our wishes bind :
Our ftudies, pleasures, taste, the fame.

O fatal, fatal stroke !
That all this pleasing fabric love had rais'd

Of rare felicity,
On which e'en wanton vice with envy gaz'd,
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form’d,
With foothing hope for many a future day,

In one sad moment broke !
Yet, O my soul ! thy rising murmur stay :
Nor dare th' all-wife Difpofer to arraign,

Or against his fupreme decree

With impious grief complain
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade,
Was his most righteous will--and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her control;
And, in these low abodes of fin and pain,

Her pure exalted soul,
Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain ?
No--rather strive thy grov'lling mind to raise

Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd, the now with pity fees,
How frail, how insecure, how flight,

Is every mortal bliss :
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,

Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its fovereign good ascend.

Rife then, my foul, with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight,

Whose peaceful path, and ever-open gate,
No feet but those of harden'd guilt shall miss ;

There death himself thy Lucy shall restore ;
There yield up all his pow'r, ne'er to divide you more.





Hymn to contentment,
LOVELY, lasting peace of mind !
Sweet delight of human kind !
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav’rites of the lky,
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know !
Whither, oh whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head ?
What happy region' dost thou please
To make the seat of calms and ease ?

Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state, to meet thée there :
Increasing avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd :
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way
Through rocks, amidâ the foaming sea,
To gain thy love ; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The filent heart with grief affails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought ; but learns to know
That folitude's the nurse of wo.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground :
Or in a foul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with Itars above, and krow
All nature in its forms below :

The rest it feeks, in seeking dies ;
And doubts at laft for knowledge rise.

Lovely, lasting peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his brealt.

'Twas thus, as under thade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper, as they wav'd;
It seem'd as all the quiet place
Confessd the presence of the grace :
When thus the spoke :_“Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild paflions all be fill ;
Know God, and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow ;
Then every grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy,
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise and prayer i
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and ble with God alone ;
Then while the gardens take my fight,
With all the colours of delight;
While filver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song i
I'll lift my voice, and tune my Iring,
And thee, Great Source of Nature, fing.

The fun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light ;
The stars that gild the gloomy night ;
The feas that roll unnuniber'd waves ;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves ;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain :
All of these, and all I fee,
Should be sung, and sung by me :
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want, and ask the tongue of man;

Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes :
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this. PARNELL.

An elegy written in a country church-yard.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimnm'ring landscape on the fight,

And all the air a solemn stillneis holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of luch, as wand'ring near her secret bower,

Molelt her ancient folitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more thall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care : Nor children run to lisp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvelt to their fickle yield ;

Their furrow oft the tubborn giebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their teams afield !

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and deftiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdaintul fmile

The short and simple annals of the poor. The boalt of heraldry, the pomp

of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike, th' inevitable hour ;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave !

Nor you, ye proud, impute to thefe the fault, . If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn aifle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated buft,

Back to its mansion call the feeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the filent dust,

Or Alatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or wake to ecstacy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, 1hat with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields with tood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest ;

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of lift'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade ! nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues ; but their crimes confin’d, Forbade to wade through laughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their fober wishes never learn’d to stray ; Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet e'en thefe bones from insult to proteci,

Some frail memorial fill erected nigh,

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