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No music warbles througli the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain! No more with devious steps I rove

Through verdant paths now sought in vain.

Aloud the driving tempest roars,

Congeald impetuous showers descend: Haste, close the window, bar the doors;

Fate leaves me Stella and a friend.

In nature's aid let art supply

With light and heat our little sphere ; Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high,

Light up a constellation here.

Let Music sound the voice of joy!

Or Mirth repeat the jocund tale : Let Love his wanton wiles employ,

And o'er the season wine prevail.

Yet time life's dreary winter brings,

When mirth's gay tale shall please no more; Nor music charm-though Stella sings;

Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore.

Catch then, O! catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies : Life's a short summer-mán a flower;

He dies-alas ! how soon he dies!

THE WINTER'S WALK.

BY THE SAME.

BEHOLD), my fair, where'er we rove,

What dreary prospects round us rise ; The naked bill, the leafless grove,

The boary ground, the frowning skies!

Nor only through the wasted plain,

Stern Winter! is thy force confess'd; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign:

I feel thy power usurp my breast.

Enlivening Hope and fond Desire

Resign the heart to Spleen and Care: Scarce frighted Love maintains her fire,

And Rapture saddens to despair.

In groundless hope, and causeless fear,

Unhappy man! behold thy doom ; Still changing with the changeful year,

The slave of sunshine and of gloom.

Tired with vain joys, and false alarms,

With mental and corporeal strife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,

And screen me from the ills of life.

HYMN.

IN THE

ORATORIO OF ABEL.

How cheerful along the gay mead,

The daisy and cowslip appear,
The flocks as they carelessly feed,

Rejoice in the spring of the year;
The myrtles that shade the gay bowers,

The herbage that springs from the sod, Trees, plants, cooling fruits, and sweet flow'rs,

All rise to the praise of my God.

Shall man, the great master of all,

The only insensible prove?
Forbid it, fair Gratitude's call,

Forbid it, Devotion and Love.
The Lord who such wonders could raise,

And still can destroy with a nod,
My lips shall incessantly praise,

My soul shall be wrapp'd in my God!

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THE MISER AND PLUTUS.

A FABLE.

BY GAY.

The wind was high, the window shakes,
With sudden start the Miser wakes :
Along the silent room he stalks,
Looks back and trembles as he walks,
Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every creek and corner pries,
Then opes the chest with treasure stored,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard.
But now, with sudden qualms possess'd,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast,
By conscience stung, he wildly stares,
And thus his guilty soul declares :

Had the deep earth ber stores confined, This heart had known sweet peace of mind. But virtue's sold. Good Gods ! what price Can recompense the pangs of vice! O bane of good! seducing cheat!

weak

man, thy power defeat! Gold banish'd honour from the mind, And only left the name behind ; Gold sow'd the world with every ill ; Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill.

Can man,

'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treachery's more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!
He spoke and sigh’d. In angry mood
Plutus, his god, before him stood.
The Miser, trembling, lockd his chest;
The vision frown'd, and thus address'd :

Whence is this wild ungrateful rant? Each sordid rascal's daily cant: Did I, base wretch! corrupt mankind? The fault's in thy rapacious mind. Because my blessings are abused Must I be censured, cursed, accused? E’en Virtue's self by knaves is made A cloak to carry on the trade; And power (when lodg’d in their possession) Grows tyranny, and rank oppression. Thus, when the villain crams his chest, Gold is the canker of the breast; 'Tis avarice, insolence, and pride, And every shocking vice beside : But when to virtuous hands 'tis given, It blesses, like the dews of heaven: Like Heaven it hears the orphan's cries, And wipes the tears from widows' eyes. Their crimes on gold shall Misers lay, Who pawn’d their sordid souls for pay?

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