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"While the mild rose, more safely growing,
Low in its unaspiring vale,
"Wish not for Beauty's darling features, Moulded by Nature's partial pow'r, For fairest forms 'mong human creatures Shine but the pageants of an hour.
"I saw the pride of all the meadow,
"By noontide's heat its youth was wasted, The waters, as they pass'd, complain'd;
At eve, its glories all were blasted,
"Nor let vain Wit's deceitful glory
Lead you from Wisdom's path astray; What genius lives renown'd in story, To happiness who found the way?
"In yonder mead behold that vapour, Whose vivid beams illusive play,
Far off it seems a friendly taper,
To guide the trav❜ller on his way;
"But should some hapless wretch, pursuing,
Tread where the treach'rous meteors glow,
He'd find, too late, his rashness rueing,
"In life such bubbles nought admiring,
"There seek the never-wasted treasure Which mutual love and friendship give, Domestic comfort, spotless pleasure,
And blest and blessing you will live.
"If Heav'n with children crowns your dwelling, As mine its bounty does with you,
In fondness fatherly excelling,
Th' example you have felt, pursue."
He paus'd-for tenderly caressing
The darling of his wounded heart,
Now Night, her mournful mantle spreading,
With genial moisture bath'd the ground;
When back to city follies flying,
For seriously around surveying
Each character, in youth and age, Of fools betray'd, and knaves betraying, That play'd upon this human stage.
(Peaceful himself and undesigning) He loath'd the scenes of guile and strife, And felt each secret wish inclining
To leave this fretful farce of life.
Yet to whate'er above was fated,
For, what all-bounteous Heaven created,
WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
From the supporting myrtles round
First, FEAR his hand, its skill to try,
Next, ANGER rush'd, his eyes, on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan DESPAIR-
But thou, O HOPE! with eyes so fair,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And HOPE, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat: And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected PITY, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice apply'd,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien;
While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting
from his head.