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And Hope and fair Religion's steady light
Exalt her eyes, make every prospect bright.
May heaven protect our children, to repay
Her sleepless nights, her every anxious day ;
May gratitude be join'd with nature's tie,
To heave the filial breast and melt the filial eye.

THE WISH.

TO HENRY.

-Multa petentibes
Desant multa.

Hono

Yes! I have wish'd for Beauty's form,

Though but the Spirit's transient dress, That I might more my Henry warm,

That I might more my Henry bless. And I have wish'd my stores to teem

With the bright earth of Chili's mine; Though little I Wealth's joys esteem,

But as the ministers of thine.

And I have wish'd indulgent Heaven

Had wit and sense bestow'd on me; Because, those godlike treasures given,

I had become more worthy thee.

So infinite the space appears,

Which, pass'd by thee, between us I mark it only with my tears,

I measure only with my eyes.

es,

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ON GOING TO OXFORD

Adieu, O ye thoughtless gay train !

That tread Pleasure's flowery path, Where Sloth, idly busy, in vain

Ever seeks fresh enjoyments at Bath : Adieu !—That from you I retire,

No tear shall swell into' my eye ; Nor, pining with hopeless desire,

For your joys shall I heave one fond sigh. Adieu, O ye seats still so lov'd !

Dear scenes of my childhood, adieu ! Ye vales too, where happy I rov'd

Ere the sharpness of sorrow I knew ! No more on his willowy shore

Avon sees me lone-wand'ring at eve; Avon hears me deep-mụsing no more ;

These meads, and these plains I must leave.

Hark! Isis now calls me away ;

" Haste; spurn these soft pleasures,” She cries; " Oh! why dost thou fondly delay. ?

" Oh! why turn so often thine eyes ? Amid the bright circle to shine,

“ Each varying fashion to guide, " To warm the fair breast is not thine ;

“ Haste; spurn these soft pleasures aside.

“ If yet the green mead can delight;

5 If Philomel sweetly can sing; * If the distant streams glittering bright

“ Amid the gay landscape of spring,

* Or the spires, that * high-bosom’d in trees

Reflect the slope sun's golden ray, “ Have yet aught of beauty to please;

“ O haste, tò my banks haste away:
Say, where smile the meadows more green?

66 Where does Philomel warble more sweet? " What streara rolls more pure thro' a scene,

" Where Spring's various treasures so meet? O say, what can Avon compare

“ To the towers, that crown my proud side! Or when did the muses sport there? " When deign'd Phoebus to bathe in his tide ? “ Erewhile thou to Phæbus wast dear,

" When Ichin was calm’d by thy strains; " And fondly I deem'd I should hear

“ Thy pipe echoing shrill through my plains. “ Go, Corydon, throw that pipe down,

+ Thy lips now no longer it breathes; " Go, Corydon, pluck off that crown;

“ Those laurels ill brook pleasure's wreaths.” Oh Isis ! thy taunts are in vain;

Far other cares tear my sad heart! Nor can Phæbus e'er sooth

my

fix'd pain; -Ah me! Love but laughs at his art. In vain nature pours a'er the ground

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Her beauties no beauties to me: If wherever I roll them around These eyes can no Maryanne see.

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* Bosom'd high in tufted trees. MILTON
t vali T8 và xuAE. Mosch: Ep: Bion:

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Alas! that Fancy's pencil still pourtrays

A fairer scene than ever nature drew:

Alas! that ne'er to Reason's placid view Arise the charms of youth's delusive days, For still the memory of our former years,

By contrast vain impairs our present joys;

Of greener fields we dream, and purer skies,
And softer tints than ever nature wears.
Lo! now to fancy Teviot's dale appears,

Adorn'd with flowers of more enchanting hue

And fairer bloom than ever Eden knew,
With all the charms that infancy endears.
Dear scenes ! which grateful memory must repeat,
Why should

you make the present joys less sweet?

* Author of “ Scenes of Infancy;" a poem, descriptive of Teviot-dale,

SONNET.

TO THE YEW.

BY THE SAME.

Wuen Fortune smild, and Nature's charms were

new, I lov'd to see the oak majestic tower;

I lov'd to see the apple's painted flower, Bedropt with peneilld tints of rosy hue: Now more I love thee, melancholy yew,

Whose still green leaves in solemn silence wave

Above the peasant's rude unhonour'd grave, Which oft thou moist'nest with the morning dew. To thee the sad, to thee the weary fly;

They rest in peace beneath thy sacred gloom :

There, sole companion of the lonely tomb, No leaves but thine in pity o'er them sigh.

Lo! now to Fancy's gaze thou seem'st to spread Thy shadowy boughs to shroud me with the dead.

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