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But neither anxious prayer nor gorgeous spoil,
Can purchase Peace; she floats in air aloof; And Aies the guilty tumults that embroil, When Care, with vulture wing, scowls o'er the dark
eni'd roof. How wisely, cheaply blest is he whose mind
Scorns not the earthen dish, or maple bowl, But sweet Content in his own cot can find ;
Nor Terror breaks his sleep, nor Guilt alarms his soul. Why aim we then the creatures of a day,
To grasp the round of Jove's eternal year? From clime to clime, why ever-restless stray,
Sick of the genial Sun, that gilds our native sphere? Sick of ourselves, ourselves we cannot fee :
The wind invites thee;--swifter than the wind, Care at the helm thy ready pilot see !
Or spur thy rapid steed; the demon sits behind ! Ah, born so soon to die, so much to feel !
O mortal man, indulge the short delight Thy present genius gives ! nor lift the veil, Which hides in sacred shade the future from thy
FOURTH IDYLLIUM OF MOSCHUS.
BY THE SAME.
Wuen o'er unruffled Ocean's azure plain
Soft zephyrs sigh, my sympathetic breast Sinks into sadness; then the Muse's strain
Delights not; all my wish, oblivious rest.
But when th' infuriate deep's vex'd billows roar,
Dashing their sounding surge, what joy to find The grove's deep shelter on the stable shore,
Where the tali pine-tree sings beneath the wind ! How wretched he, whose toil is on the main,
A boat his home, the fish his dangerous prize! While by some fountain marge, the spreading plane
Its triendly shade to my repose supplies.
and not alarms my fear!
UNDER A BUST OF ADDISON.
O Addison, to thy lamented dust,
Thou great, best Censor of a vicious age,
Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The drays and hacks repose ;
The rattling clamour glows !
Through streets and squares pursue their fun;
Exhibit to the sun.
To Dissipation's playful eye,
Such is the life for man,
Should have no other plan.
In Fashion's varying colours drest;
In gaol or dust—to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
Some sober Quiz reply,
A Bond-street Butterfly!
Enslav'd by noise, and dress, and play,
Then leave the town in May.
REV. J. 0.
THE TALE OF ECHO.
BY THE REV. J. H. POTT.
REST, fair Maid! O rest thee here,
Where these willow'd waters flow ; The noon-tide gale shall fill thine ear,
And, murmuring, breathe the words of woe. If secret grief has taught thy mind
To shun the crowd and mourn apart, In pensive silence here reclin'd,
Indulge the sigh that swells thy heart. Think not the stone, which now sustains
Your arm of snow was planted here
Demand a sad and pious tear.
Has clos’d with moss the sculptured name; Though creeping weeds, that twine around,
Have hid it from the search of Fame; And though Oblivion opens slow
Her bosom to its sinking weight, Yet Echo heard the shrieks of woe,
And can the mournful tale relate. And when in many a year one maid,
As mild of heart, as chaste, as fair, As she, whose ashes here are laid,
Wooes to this spot the evening air,