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From heart fincere, and warm, and free,
Devoted to the shade!
Ah, why does Fate his steps decoy,
In ftormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy?
O take the wanderer home!
Thy fhades, thy filence, now be mine,
O while to thee the woodland pours
And balmy from the bank of flowers
But if fome pilgrim through the glade
For he of joys divine fhall tell,
That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty fpell
For me no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread ;
No more I'll climb those toilfome heights
By guileful Hope misled ;
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
For prefent pleasure foon is o'er,
the clofe of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the fweets of forgetfulness prøve; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's fong in the grove: 'Twas thus, by the cave of a mountain afar,
While a harp rung fymphonious, a Hermit began No more with himself, or with Nature at war,
He thought as a fage, though he felt as a man. "Ah, why all abandon'd to darkness and woe! "Why, lone Philomela! that languishing fall? "For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
"And forrow no longer thy bofom inthrall; "But if Pity inspire thee, renew the fad lay,
"Mourn, fweetest complainer; man calls thee to
"O foothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pafs away! "Full quickly they pass-but they never return!
"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the fky, "The moon, half extinguish'd, her crefcent difplays: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high
"She fhone, and the planets were loft in her blaze.
**Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness purfue
"The path that conducts thee to fplendor again: "But man's faded glory what change shall renew! "Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
1 mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; "For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, "Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with "Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; [dew: "Kind Nature the embryo bloffom will fave: But when shall spring vifit the mouldering urn "O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave;"
'Twas thus, by the glare of falfe fcience betray'd, That leads to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; "My thoughts wont to roam, from 1hade onward to fhade: 'Deftruction before me, and Sorrow behind :' "O pity, great Father of Light," then I cry'd, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from "Thee!
"Lo, humbled in duft, I relinquish my pride:
"From doubt and from darkness thou only canft "free."
And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller, faint and aftray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph defcending, And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! O'er the cold cheek of Death fmiles and roses are 'blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'
COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
TO R. Д----, ESQ.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
My lov'd, my honour'd, much-respected Friend!
No mercenary Bard his homage pays; With honeft pride, I fcorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I fing, in fimple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's fequefter'd scene,
The fhort'ning winter-day is near a clofe;
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his fpades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of a lonely tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, ftacher through To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noife and glee. His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-flane, his thrifty Wifie's fmile, The lifping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin in,
Their eldeft hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love fparktin in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to fhew a braw new gown, Or depofite her fair-won penny-fee,
To help her Parents dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign'd, brothers and fifters meet,
The Mother, wi' her needle and her theers,
Gars auld claes look amaift as weel's the new;
The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due..
Their Master's and their Miftrefs's command,
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' fight, to jauk or play;
"And O, be fure to fear the Lord alway!
“And mind your duty, duely, morn and night!