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For peace and me can pomp resign :
Such the heart that's made for mine.

Whose soul with generous friendship glows;
Who feels the blessing she bestows;
Gentle to all, but kind to me:
Such be mine, if such there be.

Whose genuine thoughts, devoid of art,
Are all the natives of her heart;
A simple train, from falsehood free:

Such the maid that 's made for me.

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Avaunt, ye light coquets! retire,
Whom glittering fops around admire;
Unmoved your tinsel charms I see:
More genuine beauties are for me.

Should Love, fantastic as he is,
Raise up some rival to my bliss,
And should she change-but can that be?

No other maid is made for me.

HAMILTON.

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!

HAIL to the myrtle shade,

All hail to the nymphs of the fields! Kings would not here invade

The pleasure that virtue yields. Beauty here opens her arms

To soften the languishing miud, And PHYLLIS unlocks her charms ; Ah PHYLLIS! oh why so kind?

PHYLLIS, thou soul of love,

Thou joy of the neighbouring swains; PHYLLIS, that crowns the grove,

And PHYLLIS that gilds the plains ; PHYLLIS, that ne'er had the skill

To paint, to patch and be fine, Yet PHYLLIS whose eyes can kill, Whom nature hath made divine.

PHYLLIS, whose charming song

Makes labour and pains a delight; PHYLLIS, that makes the day young, And shortens the livelong night;

PHYLLIS,

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PHYLLIS, whose lips like May
Still laugh at the sweets they bring ;
Where love never knows decay,

But sits with eternal spring.

TE

ELL me no more how fair she is ;
I have no mind to hear

The story of that distant bliss

I never shall come near :
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

And tell me not how fond I am
To tempt my daring fate,

From whence no triumph ever came
But to repent too late :

There is some hope ere long I may
In silence dote myself away.

I ask no pity, Love, from thee,
Nor will thy justice blame,
So that thou wilt not envy me
The glory of my flame,

LEE.

Which

Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,
In that it falls her sacrifice.

HEN. KING,

BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.

FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly,

From the rocks that are lash'd by their tide;
From the maid whose cold bosom, relentless as they,
Has wreckt my warm hopes by her pride.

Yet lonely and rude as the scene,

Her smile to that scene could impart

A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale ;-
But away, thou fond dream of my heart!

To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!

Now the blasts of the winter come on,
And the waters grow dark as they rise;
But 'tis well!-they resemble the sullen disdain
That has lour'd in those insolent eyes.
Sincere were the sighs it repress'd,

But they rose in the days that are flown ;
Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My spirit is proud as thy own.

To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!

Lo!

Lo! the wings of the sea fowl are spread

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To escape the rough storm by their flight;

And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat

From the winds and the billows of night.

Like them to the home of my youth,

Like them to its shades I retire:

Receive me, and shield my vext spirit, ye groves!

From the storms of insulted desire.

From thy waves, rocky Lannow, I fly!

ANNA SEWARD.

WHILE in the bower with beauty blest
The loved AMINTOR lies,

While sinking on ZELINDA's breast
He fondly kiss'd her eyes ;

A waking nightingale, who long
Had mourn'd within the shade,
Sweetly renew'd her plaintive song
And warbled thro' the glade.

"Melodious songstress," cried the swain, "To shades less happy go;

Or,

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