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There like thy noiseless tide,
Which steals so softly thro' the vale,
That on the bank the poplar pale
Hears not the current glide,
So noiseless let my secret day,
Among the green woods slide away.

And as thy waters flow,
Not to annoy the simple swain,
His cot, his fold, or ripening grain,
But blessings to bestow,
So may I mark my silent way,
By scattering blessings where I stray.

Smoothly the years shall pass,
Nor shall I know that envious Time
Has stole away my youthful prime,
Till taught by thy clear glass;
Till in thy chrystal wave I trace
The roses withering on my face.

Along thy margent green, The gentle Muses oft at morn, In garb by rural virgin worn,

Shall round my bower be seen; Then shall they place me in their ranks, And lead me to their favourite banks.

Let not the Muses crown

With laurel wreath my tender head,
Nor round my humble temples spread
The palm that yields renown;
But round my brows a garland twine
Of roses by thy stream that shine.

Nor let the Muses bring

To grace my hand the sounding shell,
Nor bid me with loud measures swell
The trumpet by thy spring;

But let them bear to me at morn,
The reed that on thy bank is born.

Softly the reed shall blow,

And thy clear springs shall love the strain, And waft it to the simple swain,

Who haunts the vales below;

But O! beyond the shepherd's bounds,
O! waft not, Thames, its artless sounds.

Oft by thy watery glass,
With sober look and pensive eye,
Beneath the poplars will I lie,

Along the smooth green grass,
Wrapt in soft thought and musing deep,
While on thy wave my eye I keep.

There if I chance to mark

The downward sky in thy clear stream,
Now bright with many a golden gleam,
With sudden shades now dark,
O! life, then will I say, and sigh,
Thy face is likest to that sky.

If bending o'er the brink,
Within thy wave fair flowers I spy,
Reflecting the gay bank, which fly
Our grasp, then will I think,

O! hope, thy glass still cheats our sight, With flowers so faithless and so bright.

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Or if some alder tall,

I mark that shades thee on the steep,
Beneath whose root thy waters creep,
And silent urge its fall;

O! greatness, I will weep for thee,
For thou must fall like that fair tree.

Thus will I musing lie,

Till the bright sun withdraws his beam,
Till in thy wave the moonlight gleam,
And glittering stars I spy,

Then rise and woo the birds, that steep
Their song in tears, to soothe my sleep.

Long in the secret grove,

Where thus the breath of morn I taste,
Where thus the evening hour I waste,
O! Thames, long winding rove,
To mark the soft and smooth delights,
Of rural days and rural nights.

Then gently take thy way,
And as thy silver waters glide
Where stately cities crown thy side,
Or courts their pride display,
Mark if a man more blest than me
Thy banks amid these bright scenes see.

1776.

EPIGRAM, IMITATED FROM MARTIAL, I LAUGH at Poll's perpetual pother

To make me her's for life.

She's old enough to be my mother-
But not to be my wife.

N. B. HALHED, ESQ.

MORTALITY.

SWIFT o'er the high grass sweeps the blast,
A silver shade spreads o'er the lively green;
The gale is past,

No more the silver shade is seen.

Saw ye the lightning flash along the sky?
Save yonder blasted oak,

A drear memorial of the with'ring stroke,
It leaves no trace to guide the following eye.
Children of men! and such your lot!

Ye live your little hour, and die and are forgot.

What, then, avail the jewell'd crown of Pow'r,
Pomp's ermin'd robe, or Glory's death-red sword?
What then, the Wise one's dreams, the Miser's hoard?
When Death proclaims th' irrevocable hour,
Life's vain distinctions cease: the eternal doom
Bids all the sons of clay be equal in the tomb.

What tho' Earth's millions the dark realms explore,
No cheering tidings reach mankind from thence,
For there the eye of Wisdom sees no more,
And silent is the tongue of Eloquence.

For no one of the innumerable dead,
Revisits men from that obscure abode;

For never spirit twice could tread
The dark, the dreadful road.

Why sleeps the poet-he whose magic song
Leads charmed Fancy those wild realms along,
Whose shadowy portals bear the ominous line,
"Quit every hope all ye who enter here!"
Why sleeps the bard divine,

Whose spirit" far beyond the visible sphere
"Soar'd on the seraph wings of Extasy?"
Why sleeps the seer

Who gave the laws of Nature to our eye,
Fill'd with a portion of divinity?

For me, be mine when Fate shall free
This spirit from mortality,
Catching Memory's mellow'd sigh,
Still o'er my wonted haunts to fly;
In gentle visions to descend

The guardian angel of my friend.

To ease the last long ling'ring breath,

Breathe joy prophetic in the hour of death,
Embrace in air the new-born sprite,

And guide it to the realms of light!

Enthusiast!-if thou canst-explore
The vale of life that lies before.
Dark is the vale of years,

Dimm'd by those little mists in Reason's feeble
Enthusiast! cease to gaze amid immensity.

When on the bed of Death

eye:

Quick beats my pulse, and falt'ring heaves my breath;
When round me watch my friends with streaming eyes,
Wearying the sick heart with their fruitless cries:
Let me in that last moment know

What proud joys Virtue can bestow,

And, fearless of the iron rod,

Look up to thee, my friend, my father, and my God!

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