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THE midnight moon ferenely finiles
Now ev'ry paffion finks to reft,
In filence hufh'd, to REASON's voice
Come! while the peaceful scene invites,
Does it amidft the frolic mirth
Or, hide beneath the folemn gloom,
How oft the laughing brow of JOY
In vain through beauty, fortune, wit,
It dwells not in the faithlefs fmile,
Perhaps the joy to these deny'd,
The heart in FRIENDSHIP finds;
Howe'er our varying notions rove,
To place its being in fome state
Vain is alike the joy we feek,
To temper'd wishes, just desires,
HATE that DRUM's discordant found, Parading round, and round, and round: To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To fell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glitt'ring arms; And when AMBITION's voice commands, To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. I hate that DRUM's difcordant found, Parading round, and round, and round: To me it talks of ravag'd plains, And burning towns, and ruin'd fwains, And mangled limbs, and dying groans, And WIDOWS' tears, and ORPHANS' moans; And all that mis'ry's hand bestows, To fill the catalogue of human woes.
ODE TO MORNING.
HAIL to thy living light,
Ambrofial MORN! all hail thy roseate ray!
That bids gay nature all her charms difplay
That bids each dewy-fpangled flow'ret rise,
Bids filver luftre grace yon' fparkling tide,
Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt;
Or fhatter'd ruin of a mofs-grown tow'r,
Through each rough chink the folemn orb of night
Away, ye elves, away!
Shrink at ambrofial morning's living ray :'
That living ray, whofe pow'r benign
Unfolds the fcene of glory to our eye,
Where, thron'd in artlefs majesty,
The cherub beauty fits on nature's ruftic shrine.
JOHN AND JOAN.
One only tankard crown'd their board,
Along whofe inner bottom sketch'd,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
JOHN fwallow'd first a mod'rate sup;
But JOAN was not like JOHN ;
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,
JOHN often urg'd her to drink fair,
When JOHN found all remonftrance vain,
And, where the angel food fo plain,
JOAN faw the horns, JOAN-faw the tail,
JOHN ftar'd, with wonder petrify'd,
And "why doft guzzle now" he cry'd,
'O JOHN!' faid fhe, am I to blame?
For fure 'twould be a burning fhame
EPITAPH ON MISS CAMPBELL.
PENSIVE paffenger! do not refuse
To paufe awhile, and weep upon this tomb, For here the cold remains of CAMPBELL lie, This narrow fpot, the vernal maiden's doom. Yes! he was gentle as the twilight breeze,
Which o'er the fainting violet's bofom blows; Patient the bow'd beneath the ftroke of death, In faded femblance of the filver rofe.
And oft low bending o'er this hallow'd tomb,
THE THREE SISTERS.
FRE SATURN'S fons were yet difgrac'd,
It chanc'd, as once with ferious ken
The tripple tyrants to oppofe.
Befide the road a manfion stood,
Hither, difguis'd, their fteps they bend,
The artful tale that wIT had feign'd,