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High transports are shown to my light,
But we are not to find them our own ; Fate never bestow'd such delight
As I with my Phillis had knowp.
Oye woods, spread your branches apace !
To your deepest recesses I fy: I would hide with the beasts of the chace;
I would vanilh from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove,
With the same sad complaint it begun ; How she smild, and I could not but love!
Was faithless, and I am undone!
CORY DO N.
To the Memory of William Shenfione, Erg
COME, thepherds, we'll follow the hearse,
We'll fee our lov'd Corydon laid;
Yet let a sad tribute be paid.
In footh, he was gentle kind :
The graces that glow'd in his mind.
On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell ; He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell. Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat--and your master bemoan ; His music was artless and sweet,
His manners as mild as your own,
No verdure shall cover the vale,
No bloom on the bloísoms appear ; The sweets of the forest Mall fail,
And winter discolour the year. No birds on our hedges shall sing,
(Our hedges so vocal before), Since he that should welcome the spring
Can greet the gay season no more.
His Phillis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng; They listen'd--they envy'd his lays,
But which of them equall'd his song? Ye Shepherds, henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain : So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus let me break it in twain.
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.
FROM YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS,
AMAZING period; when each mountain height
Out-burns Veliivius; rocks eternal pour Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour’d; Stars ruth; and final ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation ;-while aloft, More than astonishment! if more can be ! Far other firmament than e'er was seen, Than e'er was thought by man! far other stars ! Stars animate, that govern these of fire! Far other sun!A fun, O how unlike The Babe at Bethle'm! how unlike the man That groan'd on Calvary !---yet He it is; That inan of forrows! O how chang'd! what pump! In grandeur terrible, all heav'n defcends ! And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train.} A swift archangel, with his golden wing, As blots and clouds that darken and dilgrace The scene divine, sweeps stars and luns aside, And now, all drofs remov’d, heav'ns own pure day, Full on the confines of our ether, flames.
Lorenzo! welcome to this scene; the last In nature's course; the first in wisdom's thought. I his strikes, if aught can Itrike theę; this awakes
The most supine; this snatches man from deaths.
Shall man alone, whose fate', whose final fate