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“ Ah! why, all abandon’d to darkness and wo,

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to moura ; O sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away :

Full quickly they pass but they never return."

“ Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,

The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays : But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendour again : But man's faded glory what change shall renew!

Ah foul! to exult in a glory so vain!"

“ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more .

I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you , For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,

Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn !

O when shall day dawn on the nigkt of the grave !"*

“ 'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd,

That !cads, to be wilder ; and dazzles, to blind ; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. () pity, great Father of light, then I cried,

Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee! L.o, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride :

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."

“ And darkness and doubt are now flying away ;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn :
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray.

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom !
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending
And beauty, immortal awakes from the tomb.".

"BEATUS

SECTION II.

The beggar's petition. Pity tbe sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door ; Whose .lays are dwindled to the shortest span ;

Ob! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These ti tter'd clothes my porerty bespeak,

These boary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And mapy a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,

Has br:en the channel to a flood of tears. Yun hou're, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road ; For pleniy there a residence has found,

And grandeur a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!

Here as I cray'd a morsel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,

To scek a slielter in an humbler shed. Oh! take me to your hospitable dome ,

Kero blows the wind, and piercing is the cold? Short is my passage to the friendly tomb ;

For I ain poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief,

If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,

And tears of pity would not be represt.
Heav'n sends misfortunes ; why should we repine !

'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see ; And your condition may be soon like mine, - The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot ;

Then like the lark I sprightly haild the mora; But ah! Oppression fore'd me from my cot,

My eattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter, once the comfort of my age,

Lur'd by a villain from her native home, ls cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,

And doom'd in scanty erty to roana. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care !

Struck with sad-anguish at the stero decrea,

Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair ;

And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span : Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store.

SECTION III.

Unhappy close of life.
How shocking must thy summons be, O Death .
To him that is at ease in his possessions !
Who counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement ;
Puns to each avenue, and shrieks for help ;
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers !
A little longer; yet a little longer ;
O might she stay to wash away her stains ;
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight !
Her very eyes weep blood ; and ev'ry groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life ;
Nor misses once the track ; but presses on,
Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.-R. BLAIR.

SECTION IV.

Elegy to pity.
Hail, lovely pow'r! whose bosom heaves the sigh,

When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ;
Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye,

When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless. Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey

From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare ; Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray,

Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play ;

Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies No blood-stain'd traces mark thy blameless war

Beneath thy feet no hapless insect dies.

Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me,

To spring the partridge from the guileful foe ; From secret snares the struggling bird to free;

And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow. And when the air with heat meridian glows,

And nature droops beneath the conqu’ring gleam, Let us, slow wand'ring where the chirrent flows,

Save sinking flies that float along the stream.
Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care,

To me thy sympathetic gifts impart;
Teach me in friendship’s griefs to bear à share,

And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart.
Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief;

With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief;

And be the sure resource of drooping age., So when the genial spring of life shall fade,

Aud sinking nature own the dread decay, Some soul congenial then may lend its aid,

And gild the close of life's eventful day.

SECTION V.

Peroes supposed to be written by Alexander Selkırk, during
his solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez.
Lam monarch of all I survey :

My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh solitude ! where are the charms,

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone ;
Never hear the sweet music of speech

I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see :
They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

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Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth Religion ! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver or gold,

Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell

These vallies and rocks never heard ;
Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a kneli,

Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore,
Sone cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

Aadrthe swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas ! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every placc ;

And mercy-encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.-COWPER.

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