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If the foft hand of winning pleasure leads By living waters, and through flow'ry meads, When all is fmiling, tranquil, and ferene, And vernal beauty paints the flatt'ring scene, Oh! teach me to elude each latent fnare, And whifper to my fliding heart-beware!
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.
Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way,
And with ftrong confidence lay hold on thee;
I read his awful name emblazon'd high
Wrought in each flow'r, infcrib'd on ev'ry tree i
I hear the voice of God among the trees;
Then when the laft, the clofing hour draws nigh,
Thou, the Nymph with placid eye! O feldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temperate vow :
Not all the ftorms that shake the pole
And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in fimplest vest array'd,
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
No more by varying paffions beat,
Where in fome pure and equal fky
The modeft Virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breaft
And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope who points to diftant years,
There Health, thro' whose calm bofom glide
That rarely ebb or flow;
Her influence taught the Phrygian fage
But thou, O nymph, retir'd and coy!
The lowlieft children of the ground,
O fay, what foft propitious hour
When Autumn, friendly to the Mufe,
And shed thy milder day.
When Eve, her dewy ftar beneath,
If fuch an hour was e'er thy choice,
MRS. C. SMITH.
THE partial Mufe has from my earliest hours
Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And ftill with fportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for my head :
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn'd her dear delufive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose, Referves the thorn, to fefter in the heart. For ftill fhe bids foft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills fhe knows not to remove; Points every pang, and deepens every figh
Of mourning friendship, or unhappy love. Ah! then, how dear the Mufe's favours cost, If those paint forrow best-who feel it most!
ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT.
poet of the wood-a long adieu!
Farewel, foft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt fing anew,
And pour thy mufic on the " night's dull ear." Whether on fpring thy wand'ring flights await, Or whether filent in our groves you dwell, The penfive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves fo well. With cautious ftep, the love-lawn youth fhall glide Thro' the lone brake that fhades thy moffy neft; And shepherd girls, from eyes profane, fhall hide The gentle bird, who fings of pity beft; For ftill thy voice shall soft affections move, And ftill be dear to forrow, and to love!
TO THE RIVER ARUN.
BE the proud Thames, of trade the busy mart;
Arun! to thee will other praise belong; Dear to the lover's and the mourner's heart, And ever facred to the fons of fong! Thy banks romantic, hopeless love shall feek, Where o'er the rocks the mantling bind with flaunts;
And forrow's drooping form and faded cheek,
Choose on thy willowed fhore her lonely haunts! Banks! which infpir'd thy Otway's plaintive strain! Wilds! whofe lorn echoes learn'd the deeper tone Of Collins' powerful fhell! yet once again Another poet-Hayley is thine own! Thy claffic ftream anew shall hear a lay, Bright as its waves, and various as its way!