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Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man. "Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and wo; Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral, But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass--but they never return.”
"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blazė.
"'Tis night, and the landcape is lovely no more:
I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save:
"'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd,
Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."
"And darkness and doubt are now flying away; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blend
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."
The beggar's petition.
PITY the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
A little farm was my paternal lot ;
Then like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn:
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door:
Unhappy close of life.
How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!!
O might she stay to wash away her stains,
Elegy to pity.
HAIL, lovely pow'r! whose bosom heaves the sigh, When fancy paints the scene of deep distress; Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye, When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless.
Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey
From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare ;. Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray, Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear.
Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play ;
Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me,.
And when the air with heat meridian glows,
Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care,
Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief;