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She is faithless, and I am undone;

Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to Thun

What it cannot, instruct you to cure. Beware how ye loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of an higher degree: It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle they be.

Alas! from the day that we met,

What hope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain:

The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,

In time may have comfort for me.

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The found of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the fight,

But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.

ye woods, spread your branches apace!

To your deepest recesses I fty;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase;

I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same, sad complaint it begun;
How she smild, and I could not but love!

Was faithless, and I am undone!

C 0 R Y D 0 N.




Come, shepherds, we'll follow the hearfe,

We'll see our loy'd Corydon lay'd,
Though sorrow may blemish the verse,

Yet let a sad tribute be paid,
They call'd him the pride of the plain;

In footh he was gentle and kind !
He mark'd en bis elegant strain

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell; He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,

But never wou'd rifle their cell. Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,

Go bleat---and your master bemoan; His inusic was artless and sweet, His manners as mild as your own.

111. No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear; The sweets of the forest shall fail,

And winter discolour the year. No birds in our hedges shall sing

(Our hedges fo vocal before), Since he that should welcome the spring, Can greet the gay season no more.

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,

And poets came round in a throng;
They listen’d,-----they envy'd his lays,

But which of them equall’d his song? Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,

For lost is the pastoral strain ; So give me my Corydon's fute,

And thus-----let me break it in twainte




Amazing period! when each mountain height
Out-burns Vesuvius; rocks eternal pour
Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd;
Stars rush; and final ruin fiercely drives
Her ploughshare o'er creation ;---while aloft,
More than astonishment! if more can be !
Far other firmament than e'er was seen,
Than e'er was thought by man! far other stars]
Stars animate, that govern these of fire;
Far other sun!---A fun, O how unlike
The Babe át Bethle'm! how unlike the man
That groan'd on Calvary !---yet He it is;
That man of forrows! Ohow chang'd! what pomp?
In grandeur terrible, all heav'n descends!
And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train.
A swift archangel, with his golden wing,
As bolts and clouds, that darken and disgrace
The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns afide.
And now, all drofs remov’d, heav'n's own pure day,
Full on the confines of our ether, flames.

Lorenzo! welcome to this scene; the last
In nature's course; the first in wisdom's thought.
This strikes, if aught can strike thee! this awakes

The most supine; this snatches man from death.
Roufe, rouse, Lorenzo, then! and follow me,
Where truth, the most momentous man can hear,
Loud calls my soul, and ardour wings her flight.
I find my inspiration in my theme:
The grandeur of my fubject is my muse.

At midnight, when mankind is wrapt in peace,
And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams,
To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour,
At midnight, 'tis prefum'd, this pomp must burst
From tenfold darkness; sudden, as the spark
From (mitten steel ; from nitrous grain the blaze.
Man, starting from his couch, fhall Neep no more!
The day is brokė, which never more thall close !
Above, around, beneath, amazement-áll !
Terror and glory join’d in their extremes!
Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire!
All nature struggling in the pangs of death!
Doft thou not hear her? dost thou not deplore
Her strong convulsions, and her final groan?
Where, where, for shelter shall the guilty fly,
When consternation turns the good man pale?
Great day! for which all other days were made;
For which earth rose from chaos; man' from earth;
And an eternity, the date of gods,
Descended on poor earth-created man!
Great day of dread, decision, and despair!
At thought of thee, each sublunary with

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