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The bully dire: whose front the furies swell,
And scars dishonest mark the son of hell
In vain! the shrinks to thun his luckless

Aw'd by the terrors of his vengeful face;
To scenes Tartarean, see! the wretches hie,
Where drench'd in vice, they rave—they rot-or die.

Heav'n! how unlike the pure, the tranquil scene,
Where rural mirth, and rural manners reign;
Where simple cheer disclaims the cares of wealth,
And fresh'ning gales diffuse the glow of health ;
Where undisturb’d, unenvy'd, unconfin'd,
Calm Reason rules each moment of the mind;
Where mock'd Ambition seeks her last retreat,

the world a bubble or a cheat.
Thro’clam'rous streets at length by caution led,
Lo! Alma Mater rears her rev’rend head;
Unfolds the portals of her awful courts,
Where nurs’d by Science, future Fame resorts
Pleas'd, we behold the brightning fuel blaze,
And hot repast that gives content and ease;
While keenest appetites a zeft bestow,
Which listless Luxury can never know.
The cloth remov’d, with blessing for our fare,
We next the jug of cordial punch prepare ;
Or purple claret sparkling as we pour,
Nectareous juice !' to chear the social hour,
When toil declining claims refreshment's smiles,
And mirthful Innocence the time beguiles.

With conscious joy our nets we then review,
And all the conquests of the day renew;
Boast of our skill, and palliate where it fails ;
For e'en in trifles human pride prevails
Nor to ourselves the feather'd spoils confine,
But range them round for Friendthip's facred shrine
The rural bliss redoubles in our breast,
In pleasing others when ourselves are bless'd.

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you, my

friends ! disdain what we adore ;
We give with pleasure, and would give you more :
Our offring take; and, as we wish, survey,
The grateful produce of a Winter's Day.



All me what

pangs a tender heart muft feel !

is We joy and sorrow oft in others weal,

And best affections prove a source of woe.

To Friendship's pow'r I've long resign'd my soul,

And fancy'd happiness her reign must prove ; The ills of life I thought she would controul,

And peace and rest would flow from purest love.

Alas! 'twas mortal, what I'd fancy'd more ;

And iils will mix in scenes beneath the ky: Friendship foon prov'd th' ideal bliss was o'er;

That pains were doubled by the tender tye.

Friendship, how strange thy sympathetick pow'r !

Thy magick influence spreads thro' all my mind; I doat on pain, indulge the mournful hour,

When Friendship calls, nor think her task unkind.

Nay, more-how oft I've left the mirthful scene,

The scene where joy and laughter seem'd to reign ; And stole with Friendship to the calm serene,

The converse of the heart-how great the gain!

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When my Maria meets me, gentle maid,

And tells the artless story of her wge ;
My bosom meets her fighs, her griefs would aid,

And tear for tear from sympathy will flow!

Might but the heart-felt tenderness I bear,

Soothe the keen anguilh of her aching breast; With joy I would indulge th' endearing care,

And live to hush her forrows in to reft.

My dear Maria! can thy heart enjoy

A sense of aught that friendship can bestow ? Or does thy wretchedness all fense destroy,

But that which only ferves to swell thy woe?

Yet such my love to thee, the tye fo ftrong,

I still would strive to ease thy soul's distress; Nor could pale misery paint the season long,

That in the end should bring thy mind redress.

Sometimes I've feen a tranfient gleam of joy,

Transfus'd through all thy features to a smile ; Indulge the ray, nor be to Friendship coy;

Her kindly influence may thy woes beguile.

With liberal hand thy mind by Heav'n is stor’d,

Each dear affection in thy heart hath place ; For gifts like these, be gracious Heav'n ador’d,

And glowing gratitude express the grace!

These, too, will bid thy tortur'd breast be still,

And calm thy troubled passions iņto reft ; Will lead to acquiesce in th' Almighty's will,

And see that all his ways are right, and best.


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N days of yore, when elves were seen,

By moon-light dancing on the green,
Leading in mystick steps their train,
O’er marshy mead or flow'ry plain ;
A maiden with her milking pail,
Tripp'd morn and eve across the vale ;
Patty, the sweetest temper'd lass
That e'er beat dew-drop from the grasss
But Nature, half unkind, had shed
Ill-natur'd influence on her head;
For, oh! the cause of many a care!
Deep-tinted red the virgin's hair.
For fifter nymphs she liv’d a jest,
And ne'er was kiss'd

the rest.
Now so it chanc'd, that by the mead,
Where Patty's cows were us’d to feed,
There stood a mount, on verdant ground,
With daisies strew'd, and violets crown'd;
Round which had many a tim'rous swain
Seen fairies sporting on the plain :
For under, as the story's told,
They dwelt in palaces of gold;
Safe in the bosom of the hill,
Where they convey'd themselves at will ;




Or, when they pleas'd, from thence could rise,
Invisible to mortal eyes.
By these the nymph was often seen,
With clear-ftarch'd coif so neat and clean,
Devoid of all that negligence,
That gives the fairies just offence ;
Who trace the house with critick eye,
Nor pass an unwashid trencher by 3
But pinch fevere the carelefs maid,
For room unswept, or spoon mislaid.
They view in pity Patty's hair,
And take the virgin to their care.

Now, as at dusky eve the maid
Sat milking Mully in the shade,
Simkin, a sprite of neither sex,
That us’d old peevith maids to vex,
In flowing azure loosely dress’d,
A thin transparent gauze it's veft;
Like that which now to us convey'd,
The modern females term a shade ;
Astride a vapour dancing came;
A Will o'th'Wisp it's mortal name :
The same which boys so often ken,
From distant lake or foggy fen
A cloud of light that leads astray
Trav’llers, benighted on their way.

Thus, over hill and dale, the maid
The well-designing Simkin led';
Till twelve o'clock, a solemn sound,
Rung, from a neighb’ring village, round:
What time the nimble fairies tread
The maiden daisies of the mead,
Which scarcely bend beneath their weight,
So lightly. trip their nimble feet.

How bleft the plain ! thrice fertile soil,
On which the fairies deign to smile!

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