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Down, that anchors on the air;
Clouds, that paint their changes there;

Seas, that fmoothly dimpling lie,
While the form impends on high,
Shewing, in an obvious glass,
Joys, that in poffeffion pass;
Tranfient, fickle, light, and gay,
Flatt'ring, only to betray;
What, alas, can life contain!
Life like all its circles-vain.

Will the ftork, intending rest,
On the billow build her neft?

Will the bee demand his ftore

From the bleak and bladelefs fhore?

Man alone, intent to ftray,

Ever turns from wifdom's way;

Lays up wealth in foreign land,

Sows the fea, and ploughs the fand.

Soon this elemental mass,

Soon th' incumb'ring world fhall pafs;

Form be wrapt in wasting fire,
Time be spent, and life expire.

Then, ye boafted works of men,
Where is your asylum then?
Sons of pleasure, fons of care,
Tell me, mortals, tell me where?

Gone, like traces on the deep,
Like a fceptre grasp'd in sleep,
Dews exhal'd from morning glades,
Melting fnows, and gliding shades.

Pafs the world, and what's behind?
Virtue's gold, by fire refin'd;
From an univerfe deprav❜d,

From the wreck of nature fav'd.

Like the life-fupporting grain,
Fruit of patience, and of pain,
On the fwain's autumnal day,
Winnow'd from the chaff away.
Little trembler, fear no more,
Thou haft plenteous crops in ftore;
Seed, by genial forrows fown,
More than all thy fcorners own.

What though hostile earth despise,
Heaven beholds with gentler eyes;
Heaven thy friendless fteps fhall guide,
Cheer thy hours, and guard thy fide.

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When th' fatal trump fhall found,
When th' immortals pour around,
Heaven fhall thy return attest,
Hail'd by myriads of the bless'd.

Little native of the skies,

Lovely Penitent, arife!

Calm thy bofom, clear thy brow,

Virtue is thy fifter now.

More delightful are my woes

Than the rapture Pleasure knows;
Richer far the weeds I bring,
Than the robes that grace a king.

On my wars, of shortest date,
Crowns of endless triumph wait;

On my cares a period bless'd;
On my toils eternal rest.

Come, with Virtue at thy fide;
Come, be ev'ry bar defy'd,
Till we gain our native fhore;
Sifter, come, and turn no more.




TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,

"And guide my lonely way, "To where yon taper cheers the vale "With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and loft I tread,
"With fainting fteps and flow;
"Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
"Seem length'ning as I go."

Forbear, my fon,' the Hermit cries,
To tempt the dang❜rous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open ftill;

And though my portion is but fcant,
I give it with good will



Then turn to-night, and freely share

• Whate'er

my cell bestows;

My ruthy couch and frugal fare,

My bleffing and repofe.

No flocks that range the valley free
To flaughter I condemn ;

C Taught by that Pow'r that pities me
I learn to pity them:

But from the mountain's graffy fide
A guiltless feast I bring;

A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd,
And water from the fpring.

Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.'

Soft as the dew from heav'n defcends,
His gentle accents fell;

The modeft ftranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obfcure

The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And ftrangers led aftray.

No fores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now, when bufy crowds retire

To take their ev’aing reft,

The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his penfive gueft;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prefs'd, and smil'd;
And skill'd in legendary lore,
The ling'ring hours beguil❜d.

Around in fympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart,
To foothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rifing cares the Hermit fpy'd,
With answering care oppress'd:
And whence, unhappy youth,' he cry'd,
The forrows of thy breast?

From better habitations spurn'd,
"Raluctant doft thou rove?

• Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 'Or unregarded love?

Alas! the joys that Fortune brings 'Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things
• More trifling ftill than they.

And what is Friendship but a name;
A charm that lulls to fleep;
A fhade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep?

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