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He did not think, as some have thought,

Whom honour never crown'd, The fame a father dearly bought,

Cou'd make the son renown'd.

He better thought, a noble fire,

Who gallant deeds had done, To deeds of hardihood shou'd fire

A brave and gallant son.

The fairest ancestry on carth

Without desert is poor ; And every deed of lofty worth

Is but a claim for more.

Sir ELDRED's heart was good and kind

Alive to Pity's call;
A crowd of virtues grac'd his mind,

He lov'd, and felt for all.

When merit raised the sufferer's name,

He shower'd his bounty thex ; And those who could not prove that claim,

He fuccour'd still as men.

But sacred truth the Muse compels

His errors to impart ;
And yet the Mufe reluctant tells

The fault of ELDRED's heart :

Tho' kind and gentle as the dove,

A: free from guile and art, And mild, and soft as infant love

The feelings of his heart.

Yet if the passions storm'd his soul,

By jealousy led on; The whirlwind

rage

disdain'd controul, And bore his virtues down.

Not Thule's waves so wildly break

To drown the northern shore ; Nor Etna's entrails fiercer shake;

Or Scythia's tempefts roar,

As when on summer's sweetest day,

To fan the fragrant morn.
The fighing breezes foftly stray

O’er fields of ripen'd corn ;
Sudden the lightning's blast descends,

Deforms the ravag'd fields ;
At once the various ruin blends,

And all reliftless yields.

Bat when, to clear his stormy breast,

The sun of reason shone,
And ebbing passions suņk to rest,
And shew'd what

rage

had done.

then what anguish he betray'd !

His shame how deep, how true ! He vie:v d the waste his

rage

had made, And shudder'd at the view.

The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe,

Proclain' the opening day.
Up rose the fun to gild the globe,

And hail the new-born May;

The birds their vernal notes repeat,

And glad the thick’ning grove,
And featherd partners fondly greet

With many a song of love ;
When pious ELDRED walk'd abroad

His morning vows to pay,
And hii: the universal Lord

Who gave the goodly day.

That done he left his woodland glade,

And journey'd far away :
He lov'd to court the stranger shade,

And thro’ the lone vale stray.

Within the bosom of a wood,

By circling hills embrac'd, A little, modeft mansion tood,

Built by the hand of taste.

While many a prouder caftle fell,

This safely did endure ; The house where guardian virtues dwell

Is facred, and secure.

Of Eglantine an humble fence

Around the mansion stood, Which charm'd at once the ravish'd sense,

And screen'd an infant wood.

The wood receiv'd an added

grace, As pleas'd it bent to look, And view'd its ever verdant face

Reflected in a brook.

The smallness of the stream did well

The master's fortunes shew;
But little streams may ferve to tell

From what a source they flow.

This mansion own's an aged Knight,

And such a man was he,
As heaven just shews to human fight

To tell what man shou'd be.

His youth in many a well fought field

Was train'd betimes to war ;
His vosom like a well worn shield,

Was grac'd with many a scar.

The vigour of a green old age

His reverend form did bear; And yet, alas! the warrior fage

Had drain’d the dregs of care:

And forrow more than age can break,

And wound its hapless prey ; 'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek,

And turn'd his bright locks gray.

A

One darling daughter footh'd his cares,

young and beauteous dame; Sole comfort of his failing years,

And Birtha was her name,

Her heart a little sacred shrine,

Where all the Virtues meet ;
And holy Hope, and Faith divine,

Had claim'd it for their feat.

She rear'd a fair and fragrant bower

Of wild and rustic taste, And there the screen'd each fav’rite flower

From every ruder blast.

And not a shrub or plant was there

But did some moral yield; For wisdom, by a father's care, Was found in

every

field.

The trees whose foliage fell away,

And with the summer died,
He thought an image of decay

Might lecture human pride.
While fair, perennial greens that stood,

And brav'd the wintry blast,
As types of the fair mind he viewed

Which shall for ever jait.

He taught her that the gauc'i ft flowers

Were seldom fragrant found,
But waited foon their littie powers,

Lay useless on the ground.

While the sweet-scented rofe shall iait,

And boast its fragrant power, When life's imperfect day ie past,

and beauty's Morter hour.

And here the virgin lov'd to lead

Her inoffensive day,
And here she oft retir'd to read,

And oft rerii'i to pray.

Embower'd the grac'd the woodland shades,

From courts and cities far, The pride of Caleconian maids,

The peerless northern star.

As lines that bright and blazing itar,

The glory of the night,
When failing thro' the cloudless air,

She sheds her filver light.

So Birtha shone :- But when she spoke

The Mufe herself was heard, As on the ravish'd air she broke,

And thus her prayer preferr'd.

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66 O bless thy BIRTHA, Power Supreme,

16 In whom I live and move, " And bless me molt by blessing him

o Whom more than life I love.".

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