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"How shall I woo thee, matchless fair!
Thy heavenly smile how win!
Thy smile, that smooths the brow of Care
And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing?

"Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When in the lap of Peace reclined,

He framed his infant lay;

When Fancy roved at large, nor Care
Nor cold Distrust alarmed,

Nor envy with malignant glare

His simple youth hath harmed.

'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid,

From heart sincere, and warm and free,

Devoted to the shade.

Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy

In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy !

O take the wanderer home.

"Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, Thy charms my only theme;

My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream;
Whence the scared owl on pinions gray
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.

"O, while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly warbling song,

And balmy from the bank of flowers
The zephyr breathes along;
Let no rude sound invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,

No ray from Grandeur's gilded car
Flash on the startled eye.

"But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallowed bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore;

For he of joys divine shall tell,

That wean from earthly wo, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains his heart below.

"For me no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread:

No more I climb those toilsome heights, By guileful Hope misled;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enlivening strain;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,
And all the past is vain."

RURAL CONTENT.

BY HAMMOND.

LET others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields, with waving plenty

crowned,

Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound.

While calmly poor I trifle life away,

Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,

And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,

I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,

And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast
Or lulled to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest.

Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride,

By shady rivers indolently stray,

And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away.

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.

OF MYSELF.

BY COWLEY.

THIS only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The unknown are better than ill known-
Rumour can ope the grave.

Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depend", Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep as undisturbed as death, the night.
My house a cottage more
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space;
For he, that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, this happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
But boldly say each night,

To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.

Cease then, nor order imperfection name :
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point; this kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, heav'n bestows on thee.
Submit-in this or any other sphere,

Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear.

Pope.

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