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Let then this league betwixt us made
Our mutual interests guard,

Mine be the gift of fruit and shade;

Your songs be my reward.

ODE TO TRUTH.

BY MASON.

SAY, will no white-rob'd son of light, Swift darting from his heav'nly height, Here deign to take his hallow'd stand; Here wave his amber locks; unfold His pinions cloth'd with downy gold; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?

And you, ye hosts of saints! for ye have known Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze, Though now ye circle yon eternal throne With harpings high of inexpressive praise, Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with mercy's beam this gathering cloud of fate.

'Tis silence all. No son of light

Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant saints descend.

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"Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,
If guilt, if fraud, has stain'd your mind,

Or saint to hear, or angel to defend."

So truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound

Burst from the centre of her burning throne, Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd; A bright sun clasps her adamantine zone. So truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear; With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear.

Attend, ye sons of men! attend, and say, Does not enough of my refulgent ray Break through the veil of your mortality? Say, does not reason in this form descry Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass The angel's floating pomp, the seraph's glowing grace? Shall then your earth-born daughters vie With me! Shall she, whose brightest eye

But emulates the diamond's blaze,

Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom, Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume, Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays, Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form

Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,

Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day Shall pass, and she is gone: while I appear

Flush'd with the bloom of youth through heaven's eternal year.

Know, mortals! know, ere first ye sprung,
Ere first these orbs in ether hung,
I shone amid the heavenly throng:
These eyes beheld creation's day,
This voice began the choral lay,

And taught Archangel's their triumphant song.
Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth,
Saw infant light with kindling lustre spread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth,
And ocean heave on its extended bed;
Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky;
The tawny lion stalk; the rapid eagle fly.
Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace,
Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face,
And, as he 'rose, the high behest was given,
"That I, alone, of all the host of heaven,
Should reign protectress of the godlike youth."
Thus the Almighty spake: he spake, and call'd me
Truth.

ODE TO THE MORNING.

BY THE SAME.

HALL to thy living light,

Ambrosial Morn! all hail thy roscate ray,
That bids gay. Nature all her charms display
In varied beauty bright:

That bids each dewy-spangled flow'ret rise,
And dart around its vermeil dyes;

Bids silver lustre grace yon sparkling tide,

That winding warbles down the mountain's side.

Away, ye goblins all!

Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt;

Whose vagrant feet have trac'd your secret haunt Beside some lonely wall,

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Or shatter'd ruin of a moss-grown tow'r,

Where, at pale midnight's stillest hour,

Through each rough chink the solemn orb of night

Pours momentary gleams of trembling light.

Away, ye elves away!

Shrink at ambrosial Morning's living ray;

That living ray, whose pow'r benign

Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye,

Where, thron'd in artless majesty,

The cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustic shrine.

THE FIRE-SIDE.

BY DR. COTTON.

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, In folly's maze advance;

Though singularity and pride

Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbours enter here,
No intermeddling stranger near
To spoil our heartfelt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam.

The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.

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