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'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:

It seem'd, as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke-"Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still,

The Fountain of eternal day,

That as the light serenely fair

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Illustrates all the tracts of air,

The sacred Spirit so may rest

With quickening beams upon thy breast, And kindly clean it all within

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From darker blemishes of sin,

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And shine with grace, until we view

The realm it gilds with glory too.

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See the day that dawns in air,
Brings along its toil and care,
From the lap of Night it springs
With heaps of business on its wings;
Prepare to meet them in a mind
That bows submissively resign'd,
That would to works appointed fall,
And knows that God has order'd all.
And whether with a small repast
We break the sober morning fast,
Or in our thoughts and houses lay
The future methods of the day,
Or early walk abroad to meet
Our business, with industrious feet,
Whate'er we think, whate'er we do,
His glory still be kept in view.
O Giver of eternal bliss!

Heavenly Father! grant me this,
Grant it all as well as me,

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All whose hearts are fix'd on Thee,

Who revere'thy Son above,

Who thy sacred Spirit love.

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How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
How passing wonder HE, who made him such!
Who center'd in our make such strange ex-
tremes!

From diff'rent natures marvellously mix'd,
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sully'd, and absorpt!
Tho' sully'd and dishonour'd, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

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A worm! a god!—I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost! At home a stranger, 70
Thought wanders up and down, surpriz'd,
aghast,

And wond'ring at her own: how reason reels!
O what a miracle to man is man!
Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what

dread!

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Not ev'n Philander had bespoke his shroud. Nor had he cause; a warning was deny'd, How many fall as sudden, not as safe!

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As sudden, though for years admonish'd, home.
Of human ills, the last extreme beware;
Beware, Lorenzo! a slow sudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate surprise!
Be wise to-day, 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.-
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,-
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange? 130
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born.

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All pay themselves the compliment to think 135 They, one day, shall not drivel; and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise;

At least, their own, their future selves applauds.

How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;

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That lodg'd in Fate's, to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they post

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But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,

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Soon close; where pass'd the shaft, no trace is found.

As from the wing no scar the sky retains;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 166

George Berkeley

1685-1753

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Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

Allan Kamsay

1686-1758

AN ODE TO PH-1
(1721)

Look up to Pentland's tow'ring top,
Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw,
O'er ilka cleugh,2 ilk scar, and slap,
As high as any Roman wa'.5

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(From The Gentle Shepherd, 1725)
My Peggy is a young thing,
Just enter'd in her teens,

Fair as the day and sweet as May,
Fair as the day and always gay.
My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm nae very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.1

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,-
I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave2 I'm cauld,
But she gars3 a' my spirits glow,
At wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly, Whene'er I whisper love,

That I look down on a' the town,That I look down upon a crown. My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blithe and bauld,
And naething gies me sic delyte,
As wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly,
When on my pipe I play,

By a' the rest it is confest,-
By a' the rest that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
And in her sangs are tauld,
Wi' innocence, the wale o' sense,
At wauking o' the fauld.

6 Balls.

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9 More sober or sedate folk, directing or sending to one side.

10 The bowls or balls, used in the game of bowling.

11 Poke the grate.

12 Warm the house, both outer and inner room.

13 Pint.

16 Sagacious.

14 Drops.

17 Quit.

1 Watching of the fold. 3 Makes.

15 Quart measure.

18 Doubled over a staff.

2 The rest, the others. 4 Pick, i. e. the best.

William Somerville

1692-1742

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Thy velvet robe, which pleas'd my sires of yore!
'Tis thus capricious fortune wheels us round;
Aloft we mount-then tumble to the ground.
Yet grateful then, my constancy I prov'd;

I knew thy worth; my friend in rags I lov'd; 20
I lov'd thee more; nor like a courtier, spurn'd
My benefactor, when the tide was turn'd.
With conscious shame, yet frankly, I confess,
That in my youthful days-I lov'd thee less.
Where vanity, where pleasure call'd, I stray'd;
And every wayward appetite obey'd.
But sage experience taught me how to prize
Myself; and how, this world; she bade me rise
To nobler flights regardless of a race
Of factious emmets; pointed where to place

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2 The Olympic games were held on a site which had belonged to the Eleans, the inhabitants of Elis, Greece.

The old name for Salisbury; its "spire" is one of the beauties of Salisbury Cathedral.

With my hand beneath my head,

While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood,

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From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill.

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About his chequer'd sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves and grottoes where I lay, And vistoes shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal:

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