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So may the glow-worm's glimm'ring light

Thy tiny sootsteps lead
To some new region os delight,

Unknown to mortal tread.

And be thy acorn goblet sill'd
With heav'n's ambrosial dew;

From sweetest, sreshest slow'rs distih'd,
That shed sretti sweets sor you.

And what os lise remains sor me,

I'll pass in sober ease; Hals-pleas'd, contented will I be,

Content but hals to please.

ON THE

IMMORTAL IT

OF THE

SOUL.

1/ we with brutes must share a common sate,
Nor quit this earthly, sor a better state,
Is cruel death destroys the thinking part,
And strikes the spirit, as it strikes the heart.
Say, to what purpose was our reason given,
Reason, the greatest, noblest gist os Heaven *
E

Say, who would ever be upon their guard

'Gainst vice, is virtue meets with no reward?

Much happier does the libertine appear,

Who drinks os pleasure's cup without a sear:

His days are jovial, ev'ry scene is gay,

And in amusements pass his time away,

'Till the last period os his lise is come,

And death conducts him to the silent tomb.

Turn srom this picture os earth's happy man,

And let us that os virtue's votaries scan,

See merit ost expos'd to envious hate,

Tile srowns os sortune, and the storms os sate:

See the good man by dire missortune led,

Subservient to the wealthy sool sor bread:

There osten doom'd to hear what gives ossence,

To truth, morality, and common sense:

'Till worn with sorrow, and by gries opprest,

The weary soul sighs sor its promis'd rest,

And like the hireling, working sor his pay,

Welcomes the evening os a toilsome day:

Is this be true, what greater proos can rise

That virtue blooms but in her native skies?

The charming plant, here nurs'd withtender care,

By death transplanted, yields its produce there. ,

This thought alone can the good man sustain,'

And give him ease in poverty and pain.

Who will not calmly hear stern sortune's srown,

That knows he soon shall gain a hear'nly crown.?

Who does on sublunary bliss, depend,
That hopes a happiness which ne'er shall end?
Have courage then, ye meritorious sew,
Whom strong temptations labour to subdue,
Fight the good sight, and with lise's latest breath,
Prove giorious victors over Sin and Death.

ODE, IN ELFRIDA.

BY MAS 0 AT.

Hail to thy living light,
Ambrosial Morn! all hail thy roseat ray
That bids gay nature all her charms display

In varied beauty bright:
That bids each dewy-spangled flowret 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 seet have trac'd your secret haunt

Beside some lonely wall, Or shatter'd ruin os a moss-grown tow'r, Where, at pale midnight's stillest hour, Through each rough chink the solemn orb os night, Pours momentary gleams os trembling light.

Away, ye elves, away!

Shrink at ambrosial Morning's living ray;
That living ray, whose pow'r benign,
Unsolds the scene os glory to our eye,
Where, thron'd in artless majesty,
The cherub beauty sits on nature's rustic shrine:

HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.

Lovely, listing peace os mind!
Sweet delight os human kind!
fleav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown, the sav'rites os the sky
With more os happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fledj
To lay thy meek, contented head!
What happy region dost thou please
To make the. feat os calms and ease >

Ambition searches all its sphere
Os pomp and state to meet thee theie.
Increasing Avarice would sind
Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd.
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way
Tlirough rocks amidst the soaming safe
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart which gries assails,
Treads sost and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That Solitude's the nurse os woe.
No real happiness is sound
In trailing purple o'er the ground:'
Or, in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit os the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its sorms below:
The rest it seeks in seeking dies,
And doubts at last sor knowledge rise.

Lovely, lasting Peace, appsar!
This world itsels, is thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood, And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd . The branches whisper as they wav'J: It seem'd as all the' quiet plate Consess'd the presence os: the grace. When thus she spoke—go rule thy mil, Bid thy wild passion's all be still,

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