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'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
In that secure, serene retreat,
May every bliss be thine.
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
Truth, fortitude, and friendship shall agree,
End of the first part.
Reflects new glories on his breast,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium bless'd-
While sweetly blending still are seen The wavy lawn, the sloping greenWhile novelty, with cautious cunning, Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn a rural band complain'd,
All whom her clemency sustain'd;
And, as they view
The towers of Kew,
MAN speaker. First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form’d the scene, Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear and many a sigh between ; “And where,” he cried, “ shall now my babes have bread,
Or how shall age support its feeble fire ?
Nor can my strength perform what they require;
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew.”
“ What now remains for me?
To ask for charity
And shame prevents the deed,
To succour, should I need.
Were to my mistress known;
Contented with her own.
My morning prayer, my evening song;
A life that cannot last me long."
Song.-By A WOMAN.
My morning and my evening song;
Scarr’d, mangled, maim'd in every part; Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire except his heart. Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd, At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast:
"Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
Along the billow'd main;
Than what I feel this fatal day.
limbs were lost.”
To do thy memory right;
Next appear'd a lovely maid-
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every glance that warms the soul, In sweet succession charm'd the senses,
While pity harmonized the whole.
“The garland of beauty”—'tis thus she would say—
“No more shall my crook or my temples adorn, I'll not wear a garland-Augusta's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return; But alas ! that return I never shall see,
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, There promised a lover to come -but, О me!
'Twas death—'twas the death of my mistress that came. But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."
Song.-By A WOMAN.—Pastorale. With garlands of beauty the queen of the May
No more will her crook or her temples adorn; For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is removed, and shall never return ? On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom; And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.