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If the soft band of winning pleasure leads By living waters, and through flow'ry meads; When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flatt'ring scene, Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart-beware! With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice, If friendless in a vale of tears I ftray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; With equal eye my various lot receive, Relign’d to die, or resolute to live; Prepard to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name emblazon'd high With golden letters on the illumin'd sky; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flow'r; inscrib'd on ev'ry tree : In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees; With thee in Mady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; In cv'ry creature own thy forming pow's, In each event thy providence adore. Thy hopes thall animate my drooping foul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear controul. Thus thall I veft, unmou'd by all alarms, Secure within the temple of thive arms, From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors frce, And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
TO CONTENT. O
Thou, the Nymph with placid eye !
Receive my temperate vow :
And smooth unalter'd brow.
To bless my longing fight;
And chalte subdu'd delight.
To find thy hermit cell;
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And clear undaunted eye;
A vista to the sky.
That rarely ebb or flow;
To meet the offer'd blow.
With settled smiles to meet ;
And kiss'd thy fainted feet.
To tell thy tender tale ?
O say, what soft propitious hour
And court thy gentle sway?
And shed thy milder day.
When Eve, her dewy ftar beneath,
And every storm is laid;
Low whispering through the shade.
MRS. C. SMITH.
Smild on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for
head : But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart. For ftill she bids soft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove; Points every pang, and deepens every figh
Of mourning friendship, or unhappy love. Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost, If those paint sorrow best-who feel it most!
SONNET, ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT.
poet of the wood - a long adien! Farewel, soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt fing anew,
And pour thy music on the “ night's dull ear." Whether on spring thy wand'ring flights await,
Or whether filent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,
And ftill protect the song the loves so well. With cautious step, the love-lawn youth hall glide
Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls, from eyes profane, shall hide
The gentle bird, who sings of pity beft; For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to forrow, and to love !
TO THE RIVER ARUN.
Arun! to thee will other praise belong;
And ever sacred to the fons of fong!
Whereo'er the rocks the mantling bindwith flaunts ; And sorrow's drooping form and faded cheek,
Choose on thy willowed shore her lonely haunts ! Banks! which inspir'd thy Otway's plaintive strain !
Wilds! whose lorn echoes learn'd the deeper tone Of Collins' powerful shell! yet once again
Another poet-Hayley is thine own! Thy classic stream anew shall hear a lay, Bright as its waves, and various as its way!