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"Twas Patience!-Heaven descended maid!
Implor'd, flew swiftly to my aid,
And lent her fostering breast;
Watch'd my sad hours with parent care,
Repell'd th' approaches of despair,
And sooth'd my soul to rest.

Say, when dissever'd from his side,
My friend, protector, and my guide—
When my prophetic soul,
Anticipating all the storm,
Saw danger in its direst form,
What could my fears control?

'Twas Patience-gentle goddess, hear!
Be ever to thy suppliant near,
Nor let one murmur rise;

Since still some mighty joys are given,
Dear to her soul the gifts of Heaven,
The sweet domestic ties.

Frances Sheridan.


THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth unalter'd brow.

O come, in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,



To bless my longing sight;

Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where, in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity, in attic vest,

And Innocence, with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears
A visit to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet :
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou, O nymph retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

Osay what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day:

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.

Mrs. Barbauld.


Hail! Courtesy, thou gracious power,
Of Heaven-born Chastity the child;
Remote from all that's rude and sour,
A kin to all that's soft and mild!
Earth-bred Politeness is thy feeble are;
Without thy soul, she only wears the shape.

For selfish ends her tricks she plays;
She bows and smiles, devoid of heart:
To impose she tries a thousand ways;
The practis'd eye perceives her art;

Meanwhile that art thy real worth proclaims,
Since to partake thy honours thus, she aims.
Let polish'd Falsehood dazzle youth;
Let Flatt'ry speak the style of courts:
Give me Benevolence, and Truth,

Far from dark Treachery's resorts.
Clear as the sky that lights a sunshine eve,
Thy style, sweet Courtesy, can ne'er deceive.
Prompted by love of human race,

From generous motives bent to please, Thy feelings answer to thy face,

Thy manners still are stamp'd with ease,
Each social being, in thy presence blest,
With ardour clasps thee to his grateful breast.

The rich sometimes may succour want:
For ever to oblige is thine.

The great external gifts may grant,

To charm the soul, but few incline.

Sincere delight, would you each hour impart,

Make haste to learn the breeding of the heart.



"TWAS when the slow declining ray
Had ting'd the cloud with evening gold,
No warbler pour'd the melting lay,
No sound disturb'd the sleeping fold.

When, by a murmuring rill reclin'd,

Sat, wrapt in thought, a wand'ring swain;
Calm peace compos'd his musing mind,
And thus he rais'd the flowing strain.

'Hail Innocence! celestial maid!

What joys thy blushing charms reveal!
Sweet as the arbour's cooling shade,
And milder than the vernal gale.

'On thee attends a radiant choir,

Soft smiling Peace, and downy Rest,
With Love, that prompts the warbling lyre,
And Hope, that soothes the throbbing breast.

'Oh! sent from Heaven to haunt the grove,
Where squinting Envy ne'er can come !
Nor pines the cheek with luckless love,
Nor anguish chills the living bloom.

'But spotless Beauty, rob'd in white,
Sits on yon moss-grown hill reclin'd;
Serene as Heaven's unsullied light,
And pure as Delia's gentle mind.

'Grant, heavenly power! thy peaceful sway
May still my ruder thoughts control,
Thy hand to point my dubious way,
Thy voice to soothe the melting soul.

'Far in the shady, sweet retreat,

Let Thought beguile the ling'ring hour; Let Quiet court the mossy seat,

And twining olives form the bower.

'Let dove-eyed Peace her wreath bestow, And oft sit list'ning in the dale,

While Night's sweet warbler from the bough Tells to the grove his plaintive tale,

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