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« Blow, ye breezes !-gently blowing !

“ Waft me to that happy shore, " Where from fountains ever flowing,

“ Indian realms their treasures pour ; 6. Thencé returning, poor in health,

“ Rich in honesty and wealth, “O'er thee, my dear paternal soil ! " I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.

- Then shall Misery's sons and daughters

“ In their lowly dwellings sing : • Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,

“ Undiscover'd as the spring, " I will scatter o'er the land

“ Blessings with a secret hand;“ For such angelic tasks design'd, - I give the Lyre and sorrow to the wind.”

On an oak, whose branches hoary

Sigh’d to every passing breeze,
Sigh’d and told the simple story

Of the patriarch of trees;
High in the air his harp he hung,

Now no more to rapture strung; Then warm in hope, no longer pale, : He blush'd adieu, and rambled down the dale.

Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,

Hark !—the Lyre enchants the wind;
Fond ALCÆUS listens, lingers,

-Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Now the music mounts on high,

Sweetly swelling through the sky;
To every tone, with tender heat,
His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beaki

Now the strains to silence stealing,

Soft in ecstacies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling

Poor ALCEUs grasps the Lyre !
Lo! his furious hand he flings

In a tempest o'er the strings; He strikes the chords so quick, so loud, 'Tis Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud !

“ Lyre! O Lyret my chosen treasure,

“ Solace of my bleeding heart; Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,

6 We will never, never part! “ Glory, Commerce, now in vain,

Tempt me to the field, the main ; & The Muse's sons are blest, though born " To cold neglect, and penury, and scoru.

* What, though all the world neglect me,

“ Shall my haughty soul repine ? " And shall poverty deject me,

While this hallow'd Lyre is mine ? “ Heaven--that o'er my helpless head

Many a wrathful vial shed, Heaven gave this Lyre --and thus decreed, " Be thou a bruis'd, but not a broken reed!"

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Ah! why, unfeeling WINTER! why

Still flags thy torpid wing? Fly, Melancholy Season, fly.,

And yield the year to SPRING.

SPRING,—the young harbinger of love,

An exile in disgrace,-
Flits o'er the scene, like Noah's dove,

Nor finds a resting-place.

When on the mountain's azure peak

Alights her fairy form, Cold blow the winds,-and dark and bleak

Around her rolls the storm.

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