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There is, who deems all climes, all seasons fair,

There is, who knows no restless passion’s strife; Contentment, smiling at each idle care ;

Contentment, thankful for the gift of life;

She finds in Winter many a scene to please;
The morning landscape fring’d with frost-work

gay,
The sun at noon seen through the leafless trees,

The clear calm ether at the close of day.

She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow,

When blust'ring CAURUS purifies the air, When moist AQUARIUS pours the fleecy snow, That makes th’ impregnate glebe a richer harvest

bear:

She bids for all our grateful praise arise

To him whose mandate spake the world to form ; Gave Spring's gay bloom, and Summer's cheerful

skies, And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's sound

ing storm.

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ALMIGHTY Pow'r, amazing are thy ways !
Above our knowledge, and above our praise !
How all thy works thy excellence display;
How fair, how great, how wonderful are they!
Thy hand yon wide-extended heaven up-rais'd,
Yon wide-extended heaven with stars emblaz’d,
Where each bright orb, since time his course begun,
Has rolld a mighty world, or shin’d a sun:
Stupendous thought! how sinks all human race!
A point, an atom in the field of space!
Yet ev'n to us, O LORD, thy care extends,
Thy bounty feeds us, and thy pow'r defends;
Yet ev'n to us, as delegates of Thee,
Thou giv’st dominion over land and sea;
Whate'er or walks on earth, or fits in air,
Whate'er of life the wat’ry regions bear;
All these are ours, and for th’extensive claim,
We owe due homage to thy Sacred Name!
Almighty Pow'r! how wond'rous are thy ways!
How far above our knowledge and our praise!

AN ELEGY,

DESCRIBING THE
SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND,

ON THE
MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR.

SHENSTONE.

Why mourns my friend? why weeps his down

cast eye? That eye where mirth, where fancy us’d to shine; Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;

Spring ne'er enameld fairer meads than thine.

Art thou not lody'd in fortune's warm embrace?

Wert thou not form’d by nature's partial care! Bless’d in thy song, and bless'd in ev'ry grace

That wins the friend, and that enchants the fair?

Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;

Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore ; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,

And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. For O! that nature on my birth had frown'd!

Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell! Then had my bosom ’scap'd this fatal wound,

Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewel.

But led by fortune's hand, hier darling child,

My youth her vain licentious bliss admir’d; In fortune's train the syren fatt'ry smild,

And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir’d.

Of folly studious, ev'n of vices vain,

Ah, vices! gilded by the rich and gay!
I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain!

Nor dropp'd the chase till Jessy was my prey.

Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name,

Expence, and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame,

Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.

School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles,

I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn; I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles,

And feigning, left her anxious and forlorn. Then, while the fancy'd rage alarm’d her care, · Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove; I bade my words their wonted softness wear, · And seiz'd the minute of returning love.

To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?

Will yet thy love a candid ear incline? Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune prest,

Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine. Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame!

Ere while to faunt it in the face of day; When scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz’d by fame,

Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.

“ Henry,” she said, “ by thy dear form subdu'd,

See the sad relics of a nymph undone ; I find, I find this rising sob renew'd:

I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun. Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,

When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn’s returning ray supply,

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn?

Alas! no more the joyous morn appears

That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame! For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,

And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.

The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,

The sportive lambs increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,

And talk of truth and innocence alone.

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