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And Cynthia pales her silver ray
Before th' approach of golden Day,
Which on yon mountain's misty height,
Stands tiptoe with his glad fome Light.
Now the Thrill Lark in æther floats,
And carols wild her liquid notes;
While Phoebus, in his lusty pride,
His flaring beams flings far and wide.
Cynthia farewell -- the penfive Muse,
No more her feeble flight pursues,
But all unwilling takes her way,
And mixes with the buzz of Day.

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THE

HE Beauty which the Gods bestow,

Did they but give it for a show? No - 'twas lent thee from above, To shed its Lustre o'er thy face, And with its pure

and native grace To charm the foul to Love,

The flaunting Sun, whose western beams,
This Evening drink of Oceans' streams,

To-morrow springs to Light.
But when thy Beauty sets, my Fair,
No morrow shall its beam repair,

'Tis all eternal Night.

See too, my Love, the virgin Rose
How sweet, how bashfully it blows

Beneath the vernal kies!
How soon it blooms in full display,
Its bosom opening to the Day,

Then withers, Ihrinks, and dies.

Of mortal Life's declining Hour,
Such is the Leaf, the bud, the Flow'r;
Then
crop

the Rose in Time.
Be bleft and bless, and kind impart
The just return of Heart for Heart,

Ere Love becomes a Crime,

To Pleasure then, my Charmer, hafte,
And ere thy Youth begins to waste,

Ere Beauty dims its ray,
The proffer'd gift of Love employ,
Improve each moment into Joy,

Be happy, whilft you may

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TO THE REV. MR, HANBURY, OF CHURCH-LANGTON, LEICESTERSHIRL

ON HIS PLANTATIONS.

WH

HILE vain pursuits a trifling race engage,
And Virtue slumbers in a thriftless

age,
Thy glorious plan*, on deep foundations laid,
Which aiding Nature, Nature's bound to aid,
The wise man's study, though the blockhead's fcorn,
Shall speak for ages to a world unborn.
Though fools deride, for Censure's still at hand
To damn the work she cannot understand,
Pursue thy project with an ardour fit;
Fools are but whetstones to a man of wit.

Like puling infants seem'd thy rising plan,
Now knit in strength, it speaks an active man.
So the broad oak, which from thy grand design
Shall spread aloft, and tell the world 'twas thine,.
A ftrip'ling first, just peep'd above the ground,
Which, ages hence, shall fling its shade around.

* See Mr. Hanbury's Essay on Planting.

SENT

SENT TO A LADY, WITH A SEAL.

TH
H' impression which this seal shall make,

The rougher hand of force may break;
Or jealous time, with now decay,
May all its traces wear away;
But neither time nor force combin'd,
Shall tear thy image from my mind;
Nor shall the sweet impression fade
Which Chloe's thousand charms have made;
For spite of time, or force, or art,
"Tis fealid for ever on my heart.

A'BAL.

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