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Let bravoes, then (when blood is spilt)
Upbraid the passive steel with guilt.

TO THE MEMORY OF

DAVID GARRICK, Esq.

JANUARY 20, 1779.

Thou great reviver of the Attic fire!
Thou noblest patron of the tuneful lyre!
Thine was the power, and thine the gentle art,
To swell the passions, and subdue the heart !
For thee, the fairest breast has heaved a sigh,
And the tear started from the brightest eye!
Learning and wit alike have bow'd the knee,
And hermits left their cells to gaze on thee!
On thee shall charm'd remembrance love to rest ;
Come, every Muse, and strive to praise him best!
For, ah! my lute the tribute cannot pay,
And the big tear has blotted out the lay!
Ye skilful Nine, who shall the chaplet weave?
Hail his bright day!--nor mourn his tranquil eve!
Your Garrick hail !-he breathes, he lives again,
Lives in the thought, and breathes in every strain!
Triumphant Fame enrols his acts on high,
And tells the mourner-Garrick cannot die!

A CONTEMPLATION ON NIGHT.

BY GAY.

WHETHER amid the gloom of Night I stray,
Or my glad eyes enjoy revolving day,
Still Nature's various face informs my sense
Of an all-wise, all-powerful Providence.

When the gay sun first breaks the shades of Night,
And strikes the distant eastern hills with light,
Colour returns, the plains their livery wear,
And a bright verdure clothes the smiling year;
The blooming flowers with opening beauties glow,
And grazing flocks their milky fleeces show;
The barren cliffs with chalky fronts arise,
And a pure azure arches o'er the skies.
But when the gloomy reign of Night returns,
Stripp'd of her fading pride all Nature mourns :
The trees no more their wonted verdure boast,
But weep, in dewy tears, their beauty lost:
No distant landscapes draw our curious eyes,
Wrapp'd in Night's robe the whole creation lies:
Yet still, even now, while darkness clothes the land,
We view the traces of the Almighty hand;

Millions of stars in heaven's wide vault appear,
And with new glories hang the boundless sphere:
The silver moon her western couch forsakes,
And o'er the skies her nightly circle makes ;
Her solid globe beats back the sunny rays,
And to the world her borrow'd light repays.

Whether those stars, that twinkling lustre send,
Are suns, and rolling worlds those suns attend,
Man may conjecture, and new schemes declare-
Yet all his systems but conjectures are;
But this we know, that heaven's eternal King,
Who bid this universe from nothing spring,
Can, at his word, bid numerous worlds appear,
And rising worlds the all-powerful word shall hear.

When to the western main the sun descends, To other lands a rising day he lends : The spreading dawn another shepherd spies, The wakeful flocks from their warm folds arise ; Refresh’d, the peasant seeks his early toil, And bids the plough correct the fallow soil. While we in sleep's embraces waste the night, The climes opposed enjoy meridian light: And when those lands the busy sun forsakes, With us again the rosy morning wakes ; In lazy sleep the night rolls swift away, And neither clime laments his absent ray.

When the pure soul is from the body flown, No more shall Night's alternate reign be known;

The sun no more shall rolling light bestow,
But from the Almighty streams of glory flow.
Oh! may some nobler thought my soul employ,
Than empty, transient, sublunary joy.
The stars shall drop, the sun shall lose his flame,
But thou, O God! for ever shine the same.

MAY-EVE,

OR

KATE OF ABERDEEN.

BY CUNNINGHAM.

The silver moon's enamour'd beam

Steals softly through the night;
To wanton with the winding stream,

And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state, go, balmy sleep!

'Tis where you've seldom been ;
May's vigil while the shepherds keep,

With Kate of Aberdeen,

!

Upon the green the virgins wait

In rosy chaplets gay;
Till morn unbars her golden gate,

And gives the promised May.

Methinks I hear the maids declare

The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair

As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love.
And see-the matin lark mistakes,

He qnits the tufted green;
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

Where midnight fairies rove;
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,

Or tune the reed to love.
For see! the rosy May draws nigh,

She claims a virgin queen;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry,

"Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

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