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ODE IN ELFRIDA.

BY MASON.

HAIL to thy living light,

[ray!

Ambrofial Morn! all hail thy rofeate

That bids gay Nature all her charms display
In varied beauty bright!

That bids each dewy-fpangled flow'ret rife,
And dart around its vermeil dyes;

Bids filver luftre grace yon' sparkling tide,
That winding warbles down the mountain's fide.
Away, ye goblins all!

Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt;
Whofe vagrant feet have trac'd your fecret haunt
Befide fome lonely wall,

Or fhattered ruin of a mofs-grown tow'r,
Where, at pale midnight's stillest hour,
Through each rough chink the folemn orb of night
Pours momentary gleams of trembling light.
Away, ye elves, away!

Shrink at ambrofial Morning's living ray;

That living ray, whose pow'r benign

Unfolds the fcene of glory to our eye,

Where, thron'd in artless majefty,

The cherub Beauty fits on Nature's ruftic fhrine.

HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.

LOVELY, lafting Peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heav'nly born and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
To make the feats of calm and ease?
Ambition fearches all its fphere
Of pomp and state to meet thee there.
Increafing Avarice would find
Thy prefence in its gold enflirin'd.
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way
Through rocks, amidst the foaming fea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The filent heart which grief affails,
Treads foft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daifies open, rivers run,

And feeks (as I have vainly done)
Amufing thought; but learns to know
That Solitude's the nurfe of woe.
No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or, in a foul exalted high
To range the circuit of the fky ;

Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
'The reft it feeks in feeking dies,
And doubts at laft for knowledge rise.
Lovely, lafting Peace, appear!
This world itfelf, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bleft,
And man contains it in his breaft.

'Twas thus, as under fhade I stood,
I fung my wishes to the wood;
And, loft in though, no more perceiv'd
The branches whifper as they wav'd;
It seem'd as all the quiet place
Confefs'd the presence of the Grace.
When thus fhe fpoke-Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild paffions all be ftill,
Know God-and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then ev'ry grace fhall prove its gueft,

And I'll be there to crown the rest.
Oh! by yonder moffy feat,
In my hours of fweet retreat,
Might I thus ny foul employ,
With fenfe of gratitude and joy:
Rais'd as ancient prophets were
In heavenly vifion, praife and prayer:
Pleafing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bleft with God alone:
Then, while the gardens take my fight,
With all the colours of delight;
While filver waters glide along,
To please iny ear and court my fong;
I'll lift my voice and tune my string,
And thee, great Source of Nature, fing.

The fun, that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that fhines with borrow'd light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its fhady leaves;
The field whofe ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of thefe, and all I fee,

Should be fung, and fung by me!
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go fearch among your idle dreams,
Your bufy or your vain extremes,
And find a life of equal blifs,
Or own the next begun in this.

THE COUNTRY BOX, 1757.

BY ROBERT LLOYD, A. M.

Vos fapere et folus ajo bene vivere, quorum,
Confpicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis.

THE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural fhade,

And buckles to his one-horse chair
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;

-HOR.

While wedg'd in clofely by his fide Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride, With Jacky on a tool before 'em, And out they jog in due decorum: Scarce paft the turnpike half a mile, How all the country feems to fmile! And as they flowly jog together, The Cit commends the road and weather; While Madam doats upon the trees, And longs for ev'ry houfe the fees, Admires its views, its fituation, And thus fhe opens her oration: What fignify the loads of wealth, Without that richeft jewe', health? Excufe the fondnefs of a wife, Who doats upon your precious life! Such ceafelefs toil, fuch conftant care, Is more than human ftrength can bear! One may obferve it in your faceIndeed, my dear, you break apace: And nothing can your health repair, But exercife and country air. Sir Traffic has a house, you know, About a mile from Cheyney-row; He's a good man, indeed, 'tis true, But not fo warin, my dear, as you: And folks are always apt to fneerOne would not be out-done, my dear! Sir Traffic's name fo well apply'd Awak'd his brother merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost deference to his wife, Confefs'd her argument had reafon, And by th' approaching fummer feafon

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