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Thy numbers Jealousy, to nought were six'J,

Sad proos os thy distresssul state,
Os differing themes the veering song was mix'd

And now it courted Love, now,raving, call'd on Hate.

With eyes up rais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd.

And srom her wild sequester'd seat,

Jn notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'3 through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And dashing sost srom rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound:
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or o'er some haunted streams with sond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love os peace and lonely musing,

In hollow murmers, die away.

But O, how alters was its-' sprightlier tone!

When Cheersulness, a nymph os healthiest hue,

fler bow across her moulder slung, Her buskin's gemm'd with morning dew

Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste.ey'd queen Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping srom sorth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoie'd to hear, -

Aud Spoit leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's extatic trial,

He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,
But soon he faw the brisk awakening viol,

Whofe fweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids,.

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying singers kifs'd the strings.

Love fram'd with mirth a gay fantastic round,

Loose were her tresses feen, her zone unbound,

And he amid his frolic play,

As if he would the the charming air repay, -—Shook thoufand odours from his dewy wings.

Music! fphere-descended maid,

Friend of pleafure, wifdom's aid,

Why, Goddefs, why to us denied?

Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?

As in that lov'd Athenian bower,

You learn'd in all commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recal what then is heard.—
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, fublime!
Thy wonders in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording sister's page—

'Tis faid, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Even all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of found—
O bid our vain endeavours ceafe,
Revive the just designs of Greece.
Return in all thy simple state;
Consirm the tales her fons relate!

RUSTIC COT.

BY MASON.

NOR is that Cot, of which fond fancy draws
This cafual picture, alien from our theme.
Revisit it at morn; its opening latch,
Tho' Penury and Toil within reside,
Shall pour thee forth a youthful progeny
Glowing wiih health and beauty: (fuch the dower
Of equal Heav'n) fee how the ruddy tribe
Throng round the threfhold, and, with vacant gaze
Salute thee; call the loiterers in to ufe,
And form of thefe thy fence, the living fence
That graces what it guards. Thou think'st perchance
That, fltill'd in nature's heraldry, thy art,
Has, in the limits of yon fragrant tuft,
Marfhall'd each rofe, that to the eye of June

Spreads its peculiar crimson; do not err,

The loveliest still is wanting, the sresh rose

Os innocence, it blossoms on their cheek,

And lo, to thee they bear it! striving each

In panting race, who sirst mall reach the lawn,

Proud to be call'd thy shepherds. Want, alas!

Has o'er their little limbs her livery hung,

In many a tatter'd fold, yet still those limbs

Are shapely; their rude locks start srom their brow

Yet on that open brow, its dearest throne,

Sits sweet Simplicity. Ah, clothe the troop

In such a russet garb as best besits

Their pastoral ossice: let the leathern scrip

Swing at their side, tip thou their crook with steel

And braid their hats with rulhes, then to each

Assign his station; at the close os eve,

Be it their care to pen in hurdled cote

The flock, and when the matin prime returns.

Their care to set them sree; yet watching still

The liberty they lend, ost shalt thou hear

Their whistle shrill, and ost their saithsul dog

Shall with obedient barkings slight the flock

From wrong or robbery. The livelong day

Meantime rolls lightly o'er their happy heads;

They bask o'l sunny hillocks, or disport

In rustic pastime, while that loveliest grace,

Which only lives in actions unvestrain'd,

To ev'ry simple gesture lends a charm.

ODE To TRUTH.

i

BY MASON.

SAY, will no white-rob'd Son os Light,
Swift-darting srom his heav'nly height,

Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Here wave his amber locks; unsold
His pinions cloath'd with downy gold;

Here, smiling, stretch his tutelary wand?
And you, ye host os saints, sor ye have known
Each dreary path in Lise's perplexing Maze

Tho' now ye circle yon eternal throne With harpings high os inexrressive praise;

Will not your train descend in radiant state,
To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud os
Fate >

'Tis silence all. No Son os Light
Darts swistly srom his heav'nly height:
No train os radiant saints descend.
"Mortals, in vain ye hope to sind,
"is guilt, is sraud hasstain'd your mind,

"Or Saint to hear, or Angel to desend." So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound Burst srom the center os her burning throne:

Where aye she sits with star wreath'd lustre crown'd A bright Sun clasps her adamantine Zone.

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