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The sprightly lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn.
Grief's sharpest thorn hard-prefling on my breaft,
I strive, with wakeful melody to chear
The fullen gloom, sweet Philomel ! like thee,
And call the stars to listen : ev'ry star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay,
Yet be not vain ; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro’ distant ages : wrapt in shade,
Pris’ner of darkness! to the silent hours,
How often I repeat their rage divine,
To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe !
I roll their raptures, but not catch their flames.

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ROM dreams, where thought in fancy's maze

runs mad,
To reason, that heav'n-lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake ; and at the destin'd hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,
I keep my assignation with my wọe.

O loft to virtue, loft to manly thought,
Loft to the noble sallies of the foul !
Who think it folitude, to be alone.
Communion sweet! communion large, and high !
Our reason, guardian angel, and our God!
Then nearest these, when others most remote ;

And

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And all, cre long, shall be remote, but these,
How dreadful, then, to mcet them all alone,
A stranger ! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd!
Now woo them ; wed them ; bind them to thy breast;
To win thy wish, creation has no more.
Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend
But friends, how mortal! dang'rous the desire.
Take Phæbus to yourselves, ye balking bards !
Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain head;
And reeling thro' the wilderness of joy ;
Where sense runs savage, broke from reason's chain,
And fings false peace, till smother'd by the pall.
My fortune is unlike; unlike my song ;
Unlike the deity my fong invokes.
I to day's soft-ey'd fifter pay my court,
(Endymion's rival !) and her aid implore ;
Now first implor'd in succour to the muse.

And kind thou wilt be; kind on such a theme;
A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme,
Soft, modeft, melancholy, female, fair!
A theme that rose all pale, and told my soul,
'Twas night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;
A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp,
Than that which smote me from Philander's tomb,
Narcisla follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.
Woes cluster; rare are folitary woes ;
They love a train ; they tread each other's heel;
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims

The

The grief that started from my lids for him:
Seizes the faithless, alienated tear,
Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow, he more than causes, he confounds ;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make distress, distraction. O Philander !
What was thy fate? A double fate to me ;
Portent, and pain ! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not less a bird of omen, than of prey.
It call’d Narcissa long before her hour ;
It call’d her tender soul, by break of bliss,
From the first blossom, from the buds of joy;
Those few our noxious fate unblafted leaves,
In this inclement clime of human life.

Sweet harmonift! and beautiful as sweet!
And young as beautiful ! and soft as young!
And gay as soft! and innocent as gay!
And happy (if aught happy here) as good!
For fortune fond had built her nest' on high.
Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume,
Transfixt by fate (who loves a lofty mark),
How from the summit of the grove she fell,
And left it unharmonious ! All its charm
Extinguisht in the wonders of her song!
Her song ftill vibrates in

my
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(O to forget her!) thrilling thro' my heart !

ravisht ear,

Song

Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this group
Of bright ideas, flow'rs of paradise,
As
yet

unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the skies; as all
We-guess of heav'n; and these were all her own.
And she was mine; and I was—was most blesta
Gay title of the deepest misery !
As bodies grow more pond'rous, robb'd of life;
Good loft weighs more in grief, than gain'd, in joy.
Like blossom'd trees, o'erturn'd by vernal Aorm,
Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;
And If in death still lovely, lovelier there ;
Far lovelier! pity swells the tide of love.
And will not the severe excuse a figh?
Scorn the proud man that is alham'd to weep;
Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e'er loft an anget! pity me.

Soon as the lustre languisht in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human right;
And on her cheek, the residence of spring,
Pale omen sat; and scatter'd fears around
On all that saw (and who would cease to gaze.
That once had seen?) with hafte, parental haste,
I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid north,
Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the sun; the fun
(As if the sun could envy) checkt his beam,
Deny'd his wonted succour ; nor with more

D

Regret

The grief that started from my lids for him:
Seizes the faithless, alienated tear,
Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow, he more than causes, he confounds;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make distress, distraction. O Philander !
What was thy fate? A double fate to me;
Portent, and pain ! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not less a bird of omen, than of

prey.
It call’d Narcissa long before her hour ;
It call'd her tender soul, by break of bliss,
From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ;
Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves,
In this inclement clime of human life.

Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet ! And young as beautiful! and soft as young ! And gay as soft! and innocent as gay!' And happy (if aught happy here) as good ! For fortune fond had built her nest on high. Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume, Transfixt by fate (who loves a lofty mark), How from the summit of the growia And left it unharmonior Extinguisht in the Her song fill vi Still me (O.

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