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To heaven she turns in deep despair,
Her insants wonder at her prayer,
And, mingling tears they know not why,
List up their little hands, and cry.
O God! their moving sorrows fee!
Support them, sweet Humanity!

IX.

Lise, sill'd with gries's distresssul train,
For ever alks the tear humane.
Behold, in yon unconscious grove,
The victims os ill-sated love!
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is not romantic woe!
The golden day os joy is o'er;
And now they part to meet no more.
Assist them, hearts srom anguish sree t
Assist them, sweet Humanity l
X.

Parent os virtue, is thine ear
Attend not now to sorrow's cry;

Is now the pity-streaming tear
Should haply on thy cheek be dry;

Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity! THE NIGHTINGALE.

As Phœbus darted sorth his milder ray,

And length'ning shades consess'd the short'ning day;

To Tiber's banks repair'd an am'rous swain,

The love and envy os the neighb'ring plain,

To cool his heat, he sought the breezy grove;

To cool his heat, but more the heat os love:

To sooth his cares on the sost lute be play'd;

But the sost lute resreshed the lovely maid;

Conspiring elm6 their umbrage shed around,

Wav'd with applause, and listen'd to the sound.

Sweet Philomel, the chorister os love,

The musical enchantress os the grove,

With wonder heard tlie shepherd as he play'd,

And stole, attentive, to the tunesul shade;

Perch'd o'er his head the sylvan Syren sate,

With envy burning, and with pride elate;

Ambitioufly she lent a list'ning ear,

Charm'd with the very sounds she dy'd to hear:

Each note, each flowing accent os the song,

She sooth'd, and sweeten'd with her soster tongue;

Gently resin'd each imitated strain,

And paid him with his harmony again.

The shepherd wonder'd at the just replies,

At sirst mistaken sor the vocal breeze;

But when he sound his little rival near

Imbibing music both at eye and ear,

With a sublimer touch he swept the lute,

A summons to the musical dispute;

The summons she receiv'd, resolv'd to try,

And daring, warbled out a bold reply.

Now sweetest thoughts the gentle swain inspire,

And with a dying sostness tune the lyre,

Echo the vernal music os the woods,

Warble the murmurs os the salling sloods;

Thus sweet he sings, but sweetly sings in vain,

For Philomela breathes a softer strain ;.

With easier art she modulates each note,

More nat'ral music melting in her throat:

Much he admir'd the magic os her tongue,

But more to sind his lute and art outdone.

And now to lostier airs he tunes the strings

And now to lostier airs his echo sings;

Though loud as thunder, though as swist as thought,

She reach'd the swelling, caught the flying note;

In trembling treble, now in solemn base,

She show'd how nature could his art surpass.

Amaz'd, at length with rage the shepherd burn'd.

His admiration into anger turn'd;

Inflam'd, with emulating pride he stood,

And thus desy'd the charmer os the wood:

And wilt thou still my music immitate}
Then see thy solly, and thy talk is great:
For, know, more pow'rsul lays remain unsung,
Lays sar superior to thy mimic tongue.
Is not, this lute, this vanquish'd lute I swear
Shall never more delight the ravish'd ear;
But broke in scatters sragments, strew the plain,
And mourn the glories which it could not g^in.
He said, and as he said, his soul on sire,
With a disdainsul air he struck the lyre;
Quick to the touch the tides os music flow,
Swell into strength, or melt away in woe:
Now raise the shrilling trumpet's clanging jar,
And imitated thunders rouze the war;
Now soft'ning sounds, and sadly pleasing strains,
Breathe out the lover's joys, and lover's pains.
He sung; and ceas'd her rival notes to hear,
As his dy'd list'ning in the ambient air.
But now, too late, her noble solly sound,
Sad Philomela stood subdu'd by sound;
Though vanquish'd, yet with gen'rous ardour sill'd,
Ignobly still she scorn'd to quit the sield:
But flowly saint her pensive accents flow,
Weaken'd with gries, and overcharg'd with woe.
Again she tunes her voice, again she sings,
Strains ev'ry nerve, and quivers on her wings;
In vain her sinking spirits sade away,
Aud in a tunesul agony decay; .

Dying she sell, and as the strains expire,
Breath'd out her soul in anguish on the lyre;
Diflblv'd in transport, she resign'd her breath
And gain'd a living conquest by her death.

DAY: A PASTORAL.

Br CVNXIXCHA.W.

MORNING.

-——Carpe diem.

- 1.

In the barn the tenant cock,

Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock!)

Jocund that the morning's nigh.

. II.

Swistly srom the mountain's brow,

Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire: And the peeping sun-beam now

Paints with-gold the village spire.

III.

Philomel sorsakes the thorn,
Plaintive where she prates at night;.

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