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This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun
And let thy will be done.
To thee, whose temple is all space;
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies;
All nature's incense rise!
Odf. On Solitude.
HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die,
Epitaph On Mrs. Elizabeth Corbett.1
HERE rests a Woman, Good without pretence,
THE keener tempests come: and fuming dun
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then brisk alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is—
Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare,
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset
By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs,
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind
Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth,
With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed,
Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow.
A Hymn On The Seasons.
THESE as they change, Almighty Father, these
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined,