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Thy numbers Jealousy, to nought were six'J,
Sad proos os thy distresssul state,
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:
Or o'er some haunted streams with sond delay,
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,
Whofe fweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
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,
'Tis faid, and I believe the tale,
NOR is that Cot, of which fond fancy draws
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.
SAY, will no white-rob'd Son os Light,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Here, smiling, stretch his tutelary wand?
Tho' now ye circle yon eternal throne With harpings high os inexrressive praise;
Will not your train descend in radiant state,
'Tis silence all. No Son os Light
"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.