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"'Tis yours to bear the lurid blaze,
"When dusky evening stills the air;
""Tis yours the vengeful tube to raise,
"And plant the unsuspected snare.

"But 'tis not ours alone to know,

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"Your hated hand's resistless force;

You bid the stream of anguish flow,

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Responsive to the sounding horn;

"Have seen the deep-mouth'd early hound, "Wake the poor victim of the morn.

"With trembling steps, by fear opprest,

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"Thro' paths unknown the sufferer flies;

Despair invades her throbbing breast,

"Midst barb'rous shouts she gasps and dies.

"Whilst man unpitying at the scene,
"Smiles at the hapless victim's moan;
"Observes each pang with face serene,
"And joys to hear the parting groan.

"Where flows yon stream, so soft and clear, "And whispering sedges crown its side; "Whose wat❜ry tenants void of fear, "Oft sport amid the crystal tide;

"Ere yet the sun's returning beam,
"With orient blush bespeaks the day,
"He seeks the cool, the silent stream,
"And lures to death the wat❜ry prey.

"Did erring Nature then ordain,

"That all must stoop to man's control; "Invest him sovereign of the plain,

"Yet curse him with a stubborn soul?

"Ah! no-from life's remotest hour,
"Inur'd to earlier scenes of woe,

"He soon perverts the sacred pow'r,
"And proves creation's deadliest foe.

"But, ah! the weak unnotic'd strain, Spent idly in the noontide air,

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"Serves but to raise the sense of pain, "And add fresh poignance to despair."

As thus the warbling mourner said,
From yonder brake a fiery wound,
Like keenest lightning pierc'd his head-

Life's crimson current stain'd the ground.

THE WISH.

FROM THE LATIN OF MARCUS FLAMINIUS.

O COOL retreats! O vernal bowers!
O soil adorn'd with varied flowers,
Where the clear stream its course pursues!
O leisure grateful to the Muse !

Kind to my hopes, if in your breast
Indulgent heaven would let me rest;
Waste in your haunts my thoughtless time,
Or careless weave the sportive rhyme;
Now in green shades embosom'd deep,
Enjoy the balmy sweets of sleep;

Now from my browsing goats demand
The streaming gift with gentle hand,
And with the healthful draught assuage

The fervors of the noontide rage:

Blest were my life, my days divine,
And heaven itself would then be mine.

And you, ye train of tuneful maids,

Who love clear brooks and cooling shades! your charms to me were dear,

If e'er

O grant my unambitious prayer;
And snatch me from the noisy crew,

To peace, to happiness, and you!

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