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This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please. But fix'd unalterable Care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where,
And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While Peace possess’d these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread
This moss grown alley musing slow;
But not like me to nourish woe!
Alike admonish not to roam;
And those of sorrows yet to come.
WEAK and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day,
To-morrow rends away.
Vice seems already slain;
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part; Virtue engages his assent,
But Pleasure wins his heart. "Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view;
His conscience owns it true.
And dangers little known,
Man vainly trusts his own.
To reach the distant coast:
Or all the toil is lost.
The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
pace with which they steal away
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maidSilent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon
her destined course: Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and bless'd where'er she goes, Pure bosom’d as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.
SONG ON PEACE. AIR—“ My fond shepherds of late,” &c. No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue;
Unattainable treasure, adieu !
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
But have proved thee a vision at last.
The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope
And the summit of all our desires. Peace
be the lot of the mind That seeks it in meekness and love: But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.
AIR-" The Lass of Patie's Mill.” When all within is peace,
How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease,
The livelong day beguile. From morn to dewy eve,
With open hand she showers Fresh blessings to deceive
And sooth the silent hours.
It is content of heart
Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart
Enlivens all it sees: Can make a wintry sky
Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day. The vast majestic globe,
So beauteously array'd In nature's various robe,
With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart
A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart,
And longs to be at rest.
LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Written when the News arrived,
To the March in Scipio.
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
And laid her on her side.
And she was overset;
With all her crew complete.
Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last seafight is fought;
His work of glory done. It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She ran upon no rock.
His fingers held the pen,
With twice four hundred men.