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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.

A PASTORAL.

To the Memory of William Shenfione, Erg

BY CUNNINGHAM.

I.

COME, thepherds, we'll follow the hearse,

We'll fee our lov'd Corydon laid;
Though sorrow may blemish' the verse,

Yet let a sad tribute be paid.
They called him the pride of the plaini,

In footh, he was gentle kind :
He mark'd on his elegant train

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

II.

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,

III.

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.

IV.

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.
Rouse, rouse, Lorenzo, then! and follow me,
Where truth, the most momentous man can hear,
Loud calls my soul, and ardour wings her flight.
I find my inspiration in my theme :
The grandeur of my subject is my muse.
At midnight, when mankind is wrapt

in

peace,
And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams,
To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour,
At midnight, 'tis presum'd, this pomp mult burst
From tenfold darkness; sudden, as the spark
From smitten steel ; from nitrous grain the blaze.
Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more !
The day is broke which never more shall close !
Above, around, beneath, amazement all!
Terror and glory join'd in their extremes !
Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire!
All nature struggling in the pangs of death!
Dost thou not hear her? dost thou not deplore
Her strong convulsions, and her final groan?
Where, where, for felter shall the guilty fly,
When consternation turns the good man pale?
Great day! for which all other days were made ;
For which earth rose from chaos ; man from earth ;
And an eternity, the date of gods,
Descended on poor earth created man!
Great day of dread, decision, and despair ! "
At thought of thee, each sublunary with
Lets go its eager grasp, and drops the world,
And catches at each reed of hope in heav’n.

Shall man alone, whose fate', whose final fate
Pangs on that four, exclude it from his thought?

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