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How well does mem'ry note the golden day,

What time reclin'd in Marg'ret's ftudious glade, My mimic reed firit tun'd the * Dorian lay,

“ Unseen, unheard, beneath an hawthorn shade !"

*T'was there we met : the muses hail'd the hour;

The same defires, the fame ingenious arts Inspir'd us both : we own'd and bless’d the pow'r

That join'd at once our studies and our hearts.

O! since those days, when science spread the feast,

When emulative youth its relish lent,
Say has one genuine joy e'er warm'd my breaft?

Enough: if joy was his, be mine content.

To thirst for praise his temperate youth forbore ;

He fondly wish'd not for a poet's name , Much did he love the muse, but quiet more,

And, tho' he might command, he slighted fame.

Hither in manhood's prime he wisely fled

From all that folly, all that pride approves ; To this soft scene a tender partner led ;

This laurel shade was witness to their loves.


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“ Begone (he cry'd) ambition's air-drawn plan ;

Hence with perplexing pomp's unwieldy wealth : " Let me not seem, but be the happy man,

" Poffest of love, of competence, and health.” Smiling he fpake, nor did the fates withstand;

In rural arts the peaceful moments flew : Say, lovely lawn ! that felt his forming hand,

How soon thy surface shone with verdure new :

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* Mufæus, the first Poem which the author lished, written while he was a fcholar of St. College in Cambridge.

How soon obedient Flora brought her store,

And o'er thy breast a shower of fragrance fung: Vertumnus came ; his earliest blooms he bore,

And thy rich fides with waving purple hung:

Then to the fight he call’d yon stately spire,

He pierc'd th' oppofing oak’s luxuriant shade. Bad yonder crowding hawthorns low retire,

Nor veil the glories of the golden mead.

Hail, sylvan wonders, hail! and hail the hand

Whose native taite thy native charms display d, And taught one little acre to command

Each envied happiness of scene and liade.


Is there a hill whose distant azure bounds

The ample range of Scarsdale's proud domain, A mountain hoar, that yon' wild peak surrounds,

But lends a willing beauty to thy plain ?

And, lo! in yonder path, 1 spy my friend;

He looks the guardian genius of the grove, , Mild * as the fabled form that whilom deign'd,

* At Milton's call, in Hartfield's liaunts to rove.

Bless'd spirit, come ! tho' pent in mortal mould,

I'll yet invoke thee by that purer name ; O come, a portion of thy bliss unfold,

From folly's maze my wayward Reps reclaim.

See the description of the Genius of the Wood in Milton's Arcades, For know by lot, from Jove I am the

power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower ; To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove With ring!cts quaint, &c.

Too long alas my inexperienc'd youth,

Milled by fatt'ring fortune's fpecious tale, Has left the rural reign of peace and truth,

The huddling brook, and cave, and whisp'ring vale.


Won to the world, a candidate for prajse,

Yet, let me boast, by no ignoble art. Too oft the public ear has heard my lays,

Too much its vain applause has touch'd my heart :

But now 'ere custom binds his powerful chains,

Come from the base enchanter set me free, While yet my soul its first best talte retains,

Recall that foul to reason, peace, and thee.

Teach me, like thee, to muse on nature's

page, To mark each wonder in creation's plan, Each mule of being trace, and humbly sage,

Deduce from these the genuine powers of man.

Of man, while warm'd with reason's purer ray,

No tool of policy, no dupe to pride ; Before vain science led his taste altray ;

When conscience was his law, and Gud his guide.

This let me learn, and learning let me live

The leffon o'er. From that great guide of truth O may my suppliant fuul the boon receive

To tread tin'o' age the footsteps of thy youth.

Written in 1758.

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HE curfew tells the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.



Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holde,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet Bleep.

The breezy call of incenfe- breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's Mrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care :
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their teem afield !
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !

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Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and definy obscure ;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.


of pow'r

The boast of. heraldry, the pomp
And all that beauty, all that'wealth e’er

Await alike th' inevitable hour.
The patlis of glory lead but to the grave,
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Men'ry o’er their Tonib no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-Crawn ide and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry suoth the dull cold car of Death ?

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