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Full in the midst, and o'er thy num'rous train

As now o'er this lone beach I stray, Displays the awful wonders of her reign.

Thy fav’rite swain* oft stole along, There thron'd supreme in native state,

And artless wove his Dorian lay, If Sirius flame with fainting heat,

Far from the busy throng. She calls ; ideal groves their shade extend,

Thou heard'st him, goddess, strike the tender string The cool gale breathes, the silent show'rs descend. And bad'st his soul with bolder passions move: Or, if bleak Winter, frowning round,

Soon these responsive shores forgot to ring,
Disrobe the trees, and chill the ground, With beauty's praise, or plaint of slighted love;
She, mild magician, waves her potent wand, To loftier flights his daring genius rose,
And ready summers wake at her command. And led the war 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes.

See, visionary suns arise
Through silver clouds and azure skies ;

Pointed with satire's keenest steel,

The shafts of wit he darts around ;
See, sportive zephyrs fan the crisped streams;
Through shadowy brakes light glance the sparkling

Ev'nt mitred dullness learns to feel,

And shrinks beneath the wound. beams : While, near the secret moss-grown cave,

In awful poverty his honest Muse That stands beside the crystal wave,

Walks forth vindictive through a venal land : Sweet Echo, rising from her rocky bed,

In vain corruption sheds her golden dews, Mimics the feather'd chorus o'er her head.

In vain oppression lifts her iron hand ;

He scorns them both, and, arm’d with truth alone,
Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say, Bids lust and folly tremble on the throne.
How, at thy gloomy close of day,

Behold, like him, immortal maid,
How, when “deprest by age, beset with wrongs ;"
When “ fallin on evil days and evil tongues;"

The Muses' vestal fires I bring :
When darkness, brooding on thy sight,

Here, at thy feet, the sparks I spread: Exild the sov'reign lamp of light;

Propitious wave thy wing, Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse?

And fan them to that dazzling blaze of song, What friends were thine, sa ve Mem'ry and the Muse?

Which glares tremendous on the sons of pride.

But, hark! methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue! Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth Caught from the stores of ancient truth:

In distant trills it echoes o'er the tide ;

Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free, Hence all thy classic wand'rings could explore, When rapture led thee to the Latian shore ;

As swells the lark's meridian ecstasy. Each scene, that Tyber's banks supplied ;

“ Fond youth! to Marvell's patriot fame, Each grace, that play'd on Arno's side;

Thy humble breast must ne'er aspire. The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly; Yet nourish still the lambent flame; The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky;

Still strike thy blameless lyre : Were still thine own; thy ample mind

Led by the moral Muse, securely rove; Each charm receiv'd, retain'd, combin'd. And all the vernal sweets thy vacant youth And thence " the nightly visitant,” that came

Can cull from busy Fancy's fairy grove, To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame, Oh hang their foliage round the fano of Truth. Recall'd the long-lost beams of grace,

To arts like these devote thy tuneful toil,
That whilom shot from Nature's face,

And meet its fair reward in D'Arcy's smile.
When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast
Spread with his own right hand Persection's gor “ 'Tis he, my son, alone shall cheer
geous vest.

Thy sick’ning soul; at that sad hour,
When o'er a much-lov'd parent's bier,

Thy duteous sorrows shower:
ODE TO INDEPENDENCY.

At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline ;

When pining Care leads on her pallid train, HERE, on my native shore reclin'd,

And sees thee, like the weak and widow'd vine, While silence rules this midnight hour, Winding thy blasted tendrils o'er the plain. I woo thee, Goddess ! On my musing mind At that sad hour shall D'Arcy lend his aid, Descend, propitious power!

And raise with friendship’s arm thy drooping head And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside: Bid my calm'd soul with all thy influence shine;

“This fragrant wreath, the Muses' meed, As yon chaste orb along this ample tide

That bloom'd those vocal shades among,
Draws the long lustre of her silver line,

Where never flatt'ry dar'd to tread,
While the hush'd breeze its last weak whisper blows, Or interest's servile throng;
And lulls old Humber to his deep repose.

Receive, thou favor'd son, at my command,

And keep with sacred care, for D'Arcy's brow: Come to thy vot'ry's ardent prayer,

Tell him, 'twas wove by my immortal hand,
In all thy graceful plainness drest :

I breath'd on every flower a purer glow;
No knot confines thy waving hair,

Say, for thy sake, I send the gift divine
No zone, thy floating vest;

To him, who calls thee his, yet makes thee mine."
Unsullied honor decks thine open brow,
And candor brightens in thy modest eye:

* Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston upon-Hull in the Thy blush is warm content's ethereal glow;

year 1620. Thy smile is peace; thy step is liberty:

| See The Rehearsal Transposed, and an account of Thou scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand,

the effect of that satire, in the Biographia Britannica, As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.

art. Marvell.

Know, ye were form’d to range yon azure field, ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. In yon ethereal founts of bliss to lave:

Force then, secure in Faith's protecting shield, The midnight clock has toll’d; and hark, the bell

The sting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grare of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?

'Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye vain, It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,

Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dullness steep Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.

Go, soothe your souls in sickness, grief, or pain, Yes, **** is dead. Attend the strain,

With the sad soloce of eternal sleep. Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air,

Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are, So oft have tript in her fantastic train,

More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair :

Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war, For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom;

Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed; (This envy owns, since now her bloom is fled ;)

Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die. Fair as the forms, that, wove in fancy's loom,

Hear, Folly, hear, and triumph in the tale: Float in light vision round the poet's head.

Like you, they reason; not, like you, enjoy Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd,

The breeze of bliss, that fills your silken sail : Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise,

On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gaily steer How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild,

Your little course to cold oblivion's shore: The liquid lustre darted from her eyes!

They dare the storm, and, through th' inclement year Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace,

Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's roar. That o'er her form its trarisient glory cast:

Is it for glory? that just Fate denies. Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place,

Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud, Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last.

Ere from her trump the heav'n-breath'd accents rise That bell again! it tells us what she is:

That lift the hero from the fighting crowd.
On what she was, no more the strain prolong :

Is it his grasp of empire to extend ?
Luxuriant fancy, pause : an hour like this
Demands the tribute of a serious song,

To curb the fury of insulting foes ?

Ambition, cease: the idle contest end : Maria claims it from that sable bier,

'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose. Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head;

And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, In still small whispers to reflection's ear, She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead.

(If life be all,) why desolation lower,

With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball, Oh catch the awful notes, and lift them loud;

That thou may'st flame the meteor of an hour ? Proclaim the theme, by sage, by fool rever'd :

Go wiser ye, that flutter life away, Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud!

Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high; 'Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard.

Weave the light dance, with festive freedom gay, Yes, ye shall hear, and tremble as ye hear, While, high with health, your hearts uxulting leap;

And live your moment, since the next ye die. Evin in the midst of Pleasure's mad career,

Yet know, vain sceptics, know, th' Almighty mind,

Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire, The mental monitor shall wake and weep.

Bade his free soul, by earth nor time confin'd For say, than ****'s propitious star,

To Hear'n, to immortality aspirc.
What brighter planet on your births arose :

Nor shall the pile of hope, bis mercy reard,
Or gave of Fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavish, or by death to lose!

By vain philosophy be e'er destroy'd :
Early to lose ; while, borne on busy wing,

Eternity, by all or wish'd or fear'd, Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom :

Shall be by all or suffer'd or enjoy'd.
Nor fear, while basking in the beams of spring,

The wintry storm that sweeps you to the tomb.
Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand
That led her hence, though soon, by steps so slow:

EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON.
Long at her couch Death took his patient stand,

IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL.
And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow :
To give reflection time, with lenient art,

TAKE, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear : Each fond delusion from her soul to steal;

Take that best gift which Heav'n so lately gave Teach her from folly peaceably to part,

To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care And wean her from a world she lov'd so well. Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave, Say, are ye sure his mercy shall extend

And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line 1 To you so long a span? Alas, ye sigh:

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? Make then, while yet ye may, your God, your friend, Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine :

And learn with equal ease to sleep or die! Ev'n from the grave thou shalt have power to Nor think the Muse, whose sober vice ye hear,

charm. Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow; Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear,

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; Or shades with horrors, what with smiles should And if so fair, from vanity as free; glow.

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love No; she would warm you with seraphic fire, Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, Heirs as ye are of Heav'n's eternal day;

("Twas ev'n to thee) yet the dread path once trod Would bid you boldly to that Heav'n aspire, Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high,

Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay. And bids "the pure in heart behold their God."

WILLIAM COWPER.

William COWPER, a poet of distinguished and Olney in Buckinghamshire, which was thenceforth original genius, was born in 1731, at Great Berk- the principal place of Cowper's residence. At hampstead in Hertfordshire. His father, the rector Olney he contracted a close friendship with the of the parish, was John Cowper, D. D., nephew of Rev. Mr. Newton, then minister there, and since Lord Chancellor Cowper. The subject of this me- rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, London, whose relimorial was educated at Westminster school, where gious opinions were in unison with his own. To a he acquired the classical knowledge and correctness collection of hymns published by him, Cowper conof taste for which it is celebrated, but without any tributed a considerable number of his own composi. portion of the confident and undaunted spirit which lion. He first became known to the public as a is supposed to be one of the most valuable acquisi-poet by a volume printed in 1782, the contents of tions derived from the great schools, to those who which, if they did not at once place him high in the are to push their way in the world. On the con- scale of poetic excellence, sufficiently established his trary, it appears from his poem entitled " Tirocini- claim to originality. Its topics are, - Table Talk," um," that the impressions made upon his mind from · Error," " Truth," « Expostulation," . Hope," "Char what he witnessed in this place, were such as gave ity," "Conversation," and " Retirement," all treated him a permanent dislike to the system of public upon religious principles, and not without a consideducation. Soon after his leaving Westminster, he erable tinge of that rigor and austerity which bewas articled to a solicitor in London for three years; longed to his system. These pieces are written in but so far from studying the law, he spent the great-rhymed heroics, which he commonly manages with est part of his time with a relation, where he and little grace, or attention to melody. The style, though the future Lord Chancellor (Lord Thurlow) spent often prosaic, is never fat or insipid ; and sometimes their time, according to his own expression, “in gig- the true poet breaks through, in a vein of lively degling, and making giggle." At the expiration of his scription or bold figure. time with the solicitor, he took chambers in the If this volume excited but little of the public atTemple, but his time was still little employed on tention, his next volume, published in 1785, introthe law, and was rather engaged in classical pur- duced his name to all the lovers of poetry, and gave suits, in which Coleman, Bonnel Thornton, and hir at least an equality of reputation with any of Lloyd, seem to have been his principal associates. his contemporaries. It consists of a poem in six

Cowper's spirits were naturally weak; and when books, entitled “The Task," alluding to the injunc his friends had procured him a nomination to the tion of a lady, to write a piece in blank verse, for offices of reading-clerk and clerk of the Private the subject of which she gave him The Sofa. It sets Committees in the House of Lords, he shrunk with out, indeed, with some sportive discussion of this such terror from the idea of making his appearance topic; but soon falls into a serious strain of rural before the most august assembly in the nation, that description, intermixed with moral sentiments and after a violent struggle with himself, he resigned his portraitures, which is preserved through the six intended employment, and with it all his prospects books, freely ranging from thought to thought with in life. In fact, he became completely deranged; no perceptible method. But as the whole poem will and in this situation was placed, in December, 1763, here be found, it is unnecessary to enter into particuabout the 32d year of his age, with Dr. Cotton, an lars. Another piece, entitled “Tirocinium, or a Reamiable and worthy physician at St. Alban's. This view of Schools," a work replete with striking obagitation of his mind is placed by some who have servation, is added to the preceding; and several mentioned it to the account of a deep consideration other pieces gleaned from his various writings will of his state in a religious view, in which the terrors be found in the collection. of eternal judgment so much overpowered his For the purpose of losing in employment the disfaculties, that he remained seven months in mo- tressing ideas which were ever apt to recur, he next mentary expectation of being piunged into final undertook the real task of translating into blank misery. Mr. Johnson, however, a near relation, has verse the whole of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. This taken pains to prove to demonstration, that these work has much merit of execution, and is certainly views of his condition were so far from producing a far more exact representation of the ancient poet such an effect, that they ought to be regarded as his than Pope's ornamental version ; but where simpli. sole consolation. It appears, however, that his mind city of matter in the original is not relieved by the had acquired such an indelible tinge of melancholy, force of sonorous diction, the poverty of English that his whole successive life was passed with little blank verse has scarcely been able to prevent it from more than intervals of comfort between long parox- sinking into mere prose. Various other translations ysms of settled despondency.

denoted his necessity of seeking employment; but After a residence of a year and a half with Dr. nothing was capable of durably relieving his mind Cotton, he spent part of his time at the house of from the horrible impressions it had undergone. He his relation, Earl Cowper, and part at Huntingdon, passed some of his latter years under the affectionwith his intimate friend, the Rev. Mr. Unwin. The ate care of a relation at East Dereham in Norfolk, death of the latter caused his widow to remove to where he died on April 25th, 1800.

BOADICEA:

AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior-queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Ev'ry burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.

« Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

“ Rome shall perish—write that word

In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

“Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !

“ Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

" Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines,
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines.)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assurd,
In peace upon her sloping sides matur'd.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration lab'ring in her womb,
She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapors rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring skies,
While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day,
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what pow'rs of song,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man,
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an uninform'd and idle mass;
Without a soil t'invite the tiller's care,
Or blade, that might redeem it from despair.
Yet time at length (what will not time achieve 1)
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,
O charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets!
The self-same gale, that wafts the fragrance rouns
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence Glory your air, but justice your pretence; Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires The mischiess your ambitious pride inspires!

Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain And tells you where ye have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbors', and their own IIl-fated race! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might eam And Folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her train Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again, And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease.)
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the gen'ral spoil,
Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok'd upon the plain,
And the Sun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conqu’ror's part;
And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,
| That wealth within is ruin at the door.

“Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they."

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ;

Dying hurl'd them at the foe.

“Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you."

HEROISM.

THERE was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves, that girdled her around.

What are ye, monarchs, laurel'd heroes, say, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
But Ætnas of the suff'ring world ye sway? In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, "Tis now become a hist’ry liule known,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won; Thy moming bounties ere I left my home, Where to succeed is not to be undone;

The biscuit, or confectionary plum; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain,

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd

All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE That humor internas'd too often make
OUT OF NORFOLK,

All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Witn me but roughly since I heard thee last. Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here. The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;

Could Time, his flight reversd, restore the hours Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" | The violet, the pink, and jessamine, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile;) To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. Could those few pleasant days again appear, Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? O welcome guest, though unexpected here ! I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song,

Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

But no-what here we call our life is such, I will obey, not willingly alone,

So liule to be lov'd, and thou so much, But gladly, as the precept were her own:

That I should ill requite thee to constrain And, while that face renews my filial grief,

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

(The storns all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) A momentary dream that thou art she.

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? While airs impregnated with incense play Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd ihe shore Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

" Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"* I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day,

And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away, Of life long since has anchord by thy side.
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Adieus and farewells are a soun.l unknown. Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, And day by day some current's thwarting force
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. What ardently I wish'd, I long leliev'd,

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.

From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth ; By expectation ev'ry day heguild,

But higher far my proud pretensions riseDupe of to-morrow even from a child.

The son of parents pass'd into the skies. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went

And now, farewell-Time unrevok'd has run Till, all my stock of infant-sorrow spent,

His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry fuor; Without the sin of violating thine ; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way,

* Garth.

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