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There, in her green dress, Nature never roves,

Spreads the gay lawn, nor lifts the lordly pine ;
They see no melting clouds refreth the groves,

No living landscape drawn by Hands Divine :

But many a fathom from the funny breeze,

Their painful way in central night they wear ;
Heave the pik'd axes on their bended knees,

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Or, fide-long, the rough quarry slowly tear.

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Yet while damp vapours chill each reeking brown

How loudly laughs the jovial voice of mirth ;
Pleas'd that the wages of the day allow
A social blaze to chear their evening hearth!

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There the chaste housewife, with maternal care,

Her thrifty distaff plies, in grave attire
Bless’d to behold her ruddy offspring wear
The full resemblance of their sturdy fire.
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To spread with such coarse fare their homely board

As fits the genius of their little fate,
Free from those ills that haunt their pamper'd lord :

To be unhappy, we must first be great.

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In these dark caves, where Heav'n's paternal hand,

Far from the world their private cradle laid, ,
They toil secure; the storms that strike the land

With wild dismay, roll harmless,o'er their head.

For who, the load of weary life to bear,

Wou'd from these murky manfions chase the slave ?
Who cease to breathe Heav'n's pure and chearful air,

To be but living tenants of the grave ?

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Yet harass’d as they are, their face ftill wears
The reverend comeliness of

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age ; No ftains their mind from worldly science bears:

Their ray of knowledge gleams from Nature's page.

The few plain rules her simple lessons give,

They still thro' life with pleas'd attention ply; Their helpless offspring bid them wish to live,

Their breathless parents bid them learn to die.

And surely Heaven, whose penetrating fight

Pierces the soul, and reads it's inmoft groan, Must see Cantent, with more sincere delight,

Toil in the mine, than triumph on the throne.

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See Charles *, more pleas'd, within the convent's gloom,

Seeking the flaves calm nights, their temp'rate days, And peaceful paffage to the private tomb,

Than diadem'd with glory's crimson rays.

E’en the proud sage, whose deep mysterious brain

Has reason'd all the balm of hope away ; Convinc'd that learning's but ingenious pain,

Might hail their happier lot, and sighing say“

« O had I thus, within the dark profound,

• By daily labour earn'd my daily food; • Or with yon seedman sow'd the quick’ning ground,

• Or cleav'd with ponderous axe the groaning wood!

• Full many an hour, that

now, tho' sped with art, « On flow and dusky pinions fullen flies ; • Full many an anxious wish, or pang of heart,

« That Reafon's boasted anodyne defies,

* Charles V. of Spain, who in the full blaze of his glory resigned the throne to his son Philip, and resir’d to a convent in Extremadura.

Had

! Had ne'er been born. Nor had th' uneasy mind,

• Pent in the prison of this mortal mould, · Felt it's etherial energy confin'd,

• It's brightest funshine in dark clouds enrolla.

• But native sense her modeft course had run ;

• Her saintly lustre untaught virtue spread ; - Health crown'd my toils ; and, ere the day was done,

• Sound sleep beneath fome alder's rustling fhade.

• Then, as I stole down life's declining hill,

• Here nature's gifts had furnish'd nature's needs ; • The brook's cold beverage every latent ill

• Had ftarv'd, that cloyster'd Contemplation feeds.

• Til in the peaceful shade of this lone bower,

• Or near yon shatter'd tower, in silence laid, • The orient orb, that watch'd my natal hour,

• Had brightly glitter'd o'er my mouldering head.'

E LE G Y II.

TO SICKNESS.

How blythe the Rowery graces of the spring

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From Nature's wardrobe come: and hark how gay Each glittering infect, hovering on the wing,

Sings it's glad welcome to the fields of May !

They gaze with greedy eye each beauty o'er ;

They suck the sweet breath of the blushing rose; Sport in the gale, or fip the rainbow shower:

Their life's short day no pause of pleasure knows.

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Like their’s, dread Power, my chearful morn display'd

The flattering promise of a golden noon;
Till each gay cloud, that sportive Nature spread,

Died in the gloom of thy distemper'd frown.

Yes; ere I told my two and twentieth year,

Swift from thy quiver flew tlie deadly dart; Harmless it pass'd’mid many a blythe compeer,

And found it's fated entrance near my heart,

Pale as I lay beneath thy ebon wand,

I saw them rove thro? Pleasure's How'ry field : I saw Health paint them with her rosy hand,

Eager to burit my bonds, but forc'd to yield.

Yet while this mortal cot of mouldering clay

Shakes at the stroke of thy tremendous power, Ah, must the transient tenant of a day

Bear the rough blast of each tempestuous hour!

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Say, shall the terrors thy pale flag unfolds,

Too rigid queen! unnerve the foul's bright powers ; Till with a joyless smile the eye beholds

Art's magick charms, and Nature's fairy bowers !

No; let me follow still, those bowers

among, Her flowery footsteps, as the goddess goes ; Let me, just lifted 'bove th' unletter'd throng,

Read the few books the learned few compose :

And suffer, when thy awful pleasure calls

The foul to share her frail companion's smart; Yet fuffer me to taste the balm that falls

From Friendship’s tongue, so sweet upon the heart.

Then,

Then, tho' each trembling nerve confess thy frown,

· E'en till this anxious being shall become But a brief name upon a little stone,

Without one murmur I embrace my doom,

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For many a virtue, shelter'd from mankind,

Live's calm with thee, and lord o’er each desire And many a feeble frame, whose mighty mind

Each muse has touch'd with her immortal fire.

E'en he fole terror of a venal age,

The tuneful bard, whose philosophick soul,
With such bright radiance glow'd on Virtue's page,

Learn'd many a lesson from thy moral school.

He too t, who' mounts, and keeps his distant way,'

His daring mind thy humanizing glooms Have temper'd with a melancholy ray,

And taught to warble 'mid the village tombs.

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Yes, goddess; to thy temple's deep recess

I come; and lay for ever at it's door The syren throng of Follies numberless,

Nor wish their flattering fungs should soothe me more.

Thy decent garb Mall o'er my limbs be spread,

Thy hand shall lead me to thy sober train, Who here retir'd, with pensive Pleasure tread

The filent windings of thy dark domain.

Hither the cherub Charity shall fly

From her bright orb, and brooding o'er my inind, For misery raise a sympathizing figh,

Pardon for foes, and love for human kind :

Mr. Pope.

+ Mr. Gras.

Then,

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