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“While the mild rose, more safely growing,
Low in its unaspiring vale,
Exchanges sweets with every gale.
“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,
At noon, a-gay narcissus, blow Upon a siver's bank, whose shadow
Bloom'd in the silver waves below;
"By noontide's heat its youth was wasted,
The waters, as they pass’d, complain'd; At eve, its glories all were blasted,
And not one former tint remain'd.
“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,
That fatal quicksands lurk below.
In life such bubbles nought admiring,
Gilt with false light, and fillid with air, Do you, from pageant crowds retiring,
To Peace in Virtue's cot repair.
“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, Looks had means only of expressing
Thoughts, language never could impart.
Now Night, her mournful mantle spreading,
Had rob'd in black th'horizon round, And dank dews from her tresses shedding,
With genial moisture bath'd the ground;
When back to city follies flying,
'Midst custom's slaves he liv'd resign'd, His face, array'd in smiles, denying
The true complexion of his mind.
For seriously around surveying
Each character, in youth and age,
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,
Obediently he bow'd his soul,
He thought Heaven only should control.
When Music, heavenly maid! was young,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
First, Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid; And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made,
Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes, on fire,
In lightuings ownd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with burried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan DESPAIR
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits-by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden
Aud longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice apply'd,
from his head.