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'Twas Patience !-Heaven descended maid ! Implor'd, flew swiftly to my aid,
And lent her fostering breast ; Watch'd
sad hours with parent care, Repell’d th' approaches of despair,
And sooth'd my soul to rest.
When my prophetic soul,
What could my fears control ?
Nor let one murmur rise ;
The sweet domestic ties. Frances Sheridan.
O Thou, the nymph with placid eye!
Receive my temperate vow:
And smooth unalter'd brow.
To bless my longing sight;
And chaste subdued delight.
To find thy hermit cell;
The modest virtues dwell.
And clear undaunted eye ;
A visit to the sky,
That rarely ebb or flow;
To meet the offer'd blow.
With settled smiles to meet :
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
To tell thy tender tale ?
And lily of the vale.
choose to hail thy power,
And shed thy milder day:.
Hail! Courtesy, thou gracious power,
Of Heaven-born Chastity the child;
A kin to all that's soft and mild !
Meanwhile that art thy real worth proclaims, Since to partake thy honours thus, she aims. Let polish'd Falsehood dazzle youth;
Let Flatt'ry speak the style of courts : Give me Benevolence, and Truth,
Far from dark Treachery's resorts. Clear as the sky that lights a sunshine eve, Thy style, sweet Courtesy, can ne'er deceive. Prompted by love of human race,
From generous motives bent to please, Thy feelings answer to thy face,
Thy manners still are stamp'd with ease,
For ever to oblige is thine.
To charm the soul, but few incline.
'Twas when the slow declining ray
Had ting’d the cloud with evening gold, No warbler pour'd the melting lay,
No sound disturb'd the sleeping fold. When, by a murmuring rill reclin’d,
Sat, wrapt in thought, a wand’ring swain ; Calm peace compos'd his musing mind,
And thus he rais’d the flowing strain.
Hail Innocence! celestial maid !
What joys thy blushing charms reveal!
And milder than the vernal gale.
And Hope, that soothes the throbbing breast. Oh! sent from Heaven to haunt the grove,
Where squinting Envy ne'er can come! Nor pines the cheek with luckless love,
Nor anguish chills the living bloom. "But spotless Beauty, rob'd in white,
Sits on yon moss-grown hill reclin'd; Serene as Heaven's unsullied light,
And pure as Delia's gentle mind. 'Grant, heavenly power! thy peaceful sway
May still my ruder thoughts control, Thy hand to point my dubious way,
Thy voice to soothe the melting soul. 'Far in the shady, sweet retreat,
Let Thought beguile the ling’ring hour; Let Quiet court the mossy seat,
And twining olives for the bower. ‘Let dove-eyed Peace her wreath bestow,
And oft sit list'ning in the dale, While Night's sweet warbler
from the bough Tells to the grove his plaintive tale,