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Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?
Enquirer, cease; petitions yet remain,
Which Heaven may hear; nor deem religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice;
Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer.
Implore His aid, in His decisions rest,
Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best.
Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resigned;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat:
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain;
These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

RICHARD JAGO

FROM THE GOLDFINCHES

All in a garden, on a currant bush,

With wondrous art they built their airy seat; In the next orchard lived a friendly thrush

Nor distant far a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here blessed with ease, and in each other blessed,

With early songs they waked the neighbouring groves, Till time matured their joys, and crowned their nest

With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now what transport glowed in either's eye!

What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food! What joy each other's likeness to descry;

And future sonnets in the chirping brood!
But ah! what earthly happiness can last?

How does the fairest purpose often fail?
A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast

Their flattering hopes, and leave them both to wail. The most ungentle of his tribe was he,

No generous precept ever touched his heart; With concord false, and hideous prosody,

He scrawled his task, and blundered o'er his part. On mischief bent, he marked, with ravenous eyes,

Where wrapped in down the callow songsters lay; Then rushing, rudely seized the glittering prize,

And bore it in his impious hands away! But how shall I describe, in numbers rude,

The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed, When from her secret stand aghast she viewed

The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed ? 'O grief of griefs!' with shrieking voice she cried,

'What sight is this that I have lived to see! 0! that I had in youth's fair season died,

From love's false joys and bitter sorrows free.'

JOHN DALTON

FROM A DESCRIPTIVE POEM

To nature's pride,
Sweet Keswick's vale, the Muse will guide:
The Muse who trod th’ enchanted ground,
Who sailed the wondrous lake around,
With you will haste once more to hail
The beauteous brook of Borrodale.

Let other streams rejoice to roar
Down the rough rocks of dread Lodore,
Rush raving on with boisterous sweep,
And foaming rend the frighted deep;
Thy gentle genius shrinks away
From such a rude unequal fray;
Through thine own native dale where rise
Tremendous rocks amid the skies,
Thy waves with patience slowly wind,
Till they the smoothest channel find,
Soften the horrors of the scene,
And through confusion flow serene.

Horrors like these at first alarm,
But soon with savage grandeur charm,
And raise to noblest thought the mind:
Thus by the fall, Lodore, reclined,
The craggy cliff, impendent wood,
Whose shadows mix o'er half the flood,
The gloomy clouds which solemn sail,
Scarce lifted by the languid gale.

Channels by rocky torrents torn,
Rocks to the lake in thunder borne,
Or such as o'er our heads appear,
Suspended in their mid-career,
To start again at his command
Who rules fire, water, air, and land,
I view with wonder and delight,
A pleasing, though an awful sight.

And last, to fix our wandering eyes,
Thy roofs, 0 Keswick, brighter rise
The lake and lofty hills between,
Where Giant Skiddow shuts the scene.

Supreme of mountains, Skiddow, hail!
To whom all Britain sinks a vale!
Lo, his imperial brow I see
From foul usurping vapours free!
'Twere glorious now his side to climb,
Boldly to scale his top sublime,
And thence—My Muse, these flights forbear,
Nor with wild raptures tire the fair.

JANE ELLIOT

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning;
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning;
The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

CHARLES CHURCHILL

FROM THE ROSCIAD

[QUIN, THE ACTOR] His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul. Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage, Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears, Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers, With the same cast of features he is seen To chide the libertine and court the queen. From the tame scene which without passion flows, With just desert his reputation rose. Nor less he pleased when, on some surly plan, He was at once the actor and the man. In Brute he shone unequalled: all agree Garrick’s not half so great a brute as he. When Cato's laboured scenes are brought to view, With equal praise the actor laboured too; For still you'll find, trace passions to their root, Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the brutę. In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, He could not for a moment sink the man. In whate'er cast his character was laid, Self still, like oil, upon the surface played. Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in: Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff-still 'twas Quin.

FROM THE GHOST

[DR. JOHNSON]
Pomposo, insolent and loud,
Vain idol of a scribbling crowd,
Whose very name inspires an awe,
Whose every word is sense and law,
For what his greatness hath decreed,
Like laws of Persia and of Mede,

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