THE BLIND BOY.
SAY, what is that thing call'd LIGHT,
Which I muft ne'er enjoy?
What are the bleffings of the SIGHT?
O, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wond'rous things you sec,
You fay the fun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I fleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy fighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But fure with patience I can bear
A lofs I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind deftroy;
While thus I fing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
INSCRIBED ON A ROSEMARY TREE,
PLANTED IN A COTTAGE GARDEN.
Thou! whom love and fancy lead
To wander near this woodland hill,
If ever MUSIC fmooth'd thy quill,
Or PITY wak'd thy gentle reed,
Repofe beneath my humble tree,
If thou lov'ft SIMPLICITY.
Stranger! if thy lot has laid
In toilfome fcenes of bufy life,
Full forely may'ft thou rue the firife
Of weary paffions ill repaid.
In a GARDEN live with me,
If thou lov ft SIMPLICITY.
Flow'rs have fprung for many a year
O'er the village-maiden's grave,
That, one memorial-sprig to fave,.
Bore it from a fifter's bier;
And homeward walking, wept o'er me
The true tears of SIMPLICITY.
And foon, her cottage window near,
With care my flender ftem fhe plac'd;
And fondly thus her grief embrac'd,
And cherish'd fad remembrance dear:
For LOVE fincere, and FRIENDSHIP free,
Are children of SIMPLICITY.
When paft was many a painful day,
Slow-pacing o'er the village-green,
In white were all its maidens feen,
And bore my guardian friend away.
Ah, DEATH! what facrifice to thee,
The ruins of SIMPLICITY!
One gen'rous fwain her heart approv'd,
A youth whofe fond and faithful breast
With many an artlefs figh confeft,
In NATURE's language, that he lov'd.
But ftranger! 'tis no tale to thee,
Unless thou lov'ft SIMPLICITY.
He died-and foon her lip was cold,
And foon her rofy cheek was pale;
The village wept to hear the tale,
When for both, the flow bell toll'd.—'
Beneath yon flow'ry turf they lie,
The lovers of SIMPLICITY.
Yet one boon I have to crave;
Stranger! if thy PITY bleed,
Wilt thou do one tender deed,
And firew my pale flow'rs o'er their grave?
So lightly lie the turf on thee,
Because thou lov'ft SIMPLICITY!
THE RURAL RETREAT.
MINE be a cot befide the hill;
A bee-hive's hum fhall footh my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, fhall ling'r near. The fwallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built neft; Oft fhall the pilgrim lift the latch, And fhare my meal, a welcome guest, Around my ivied porch fhall fpring, Each fragrant flow'r that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall fing, In ruffet-gown and apron blue.
The village-church, among the trees, Where firft our marriage-vows were giv'n, With merry-peals fhall fwell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n.
THE REQUEST.
HOW fhort is life's uncertain space;
Alas! how quickly done!
How swift the wild precarious chase!
And yet how difficult the race,
How very hard to run!
YOUTH ftops at firft its wilful ears
To WISDOM's prudent voice;
Till now arriv'd at riper years,
Experienc'd AGE, worn out with cares,
Repents its earlier choice.
What though its profpects now appear
So pleafing and refin'd,
Yet groundless HOPE, and anxious FEAR,
By turns the bufy moments fhare,
And prey upon the mind.
Since then falfe joys our fancy cheat
With hopes of real blifs;
Ye guardian pow'rs, that rule my fate,
The only wish that I create,
Is all compriz'd in this:
May I, through life's uncertain tide,
Be fill from pain exempt;
May all my wants be ftill fupply'd,
My ftate too low t'admit of PRIDE,
And yet above CONTEMPT!
But fhould your providence divine,
A greater blits intend;
May all thofe bleffings you defign
(If e'er thofe bleffings fhall be mine)
Be center'd in a FRIEND.
ON A PROSPECT OF EATON-COLLEGE.
YE diftant fpires, ye antique tow'rs,
That crown the wat'ry glade;
Where graceful fcience ftill adores Her HENRY's holy shade; And ye, that from the flately brow, Of WINDSOR's heights th' expanfe below Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey, Whofe turf, whofe fhade, whofe flow'rs among, Wanders the hoary THAMES along
His filver-winding way!
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleafing fhade!
Ah, fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my carelefs childhood stray'd,
A firanger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary blifs beftow;
As, waving fresh their gladfome wing,
My weary foul they feem to footh,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a fecond SPRING.
Say, father THAMES (for thou haft feen
Full many a fprightly race,
Difporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace)
Who, foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arms, thy glaffy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny fucceed
To chafe the rolling circle's fpeed,
Or urge the flying ball?
While, fome on earnest bus'nefs bent,
Their murm'ring labours ply,
'Gainft graver hours that bring constraint
To fweeten LIBERTY;
Some bold adventurers difdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare defcry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,
And fnatch a fearful joy.
Gay HOPE is theirs, by fancy fed,
Lefs pleafing when poffeft;
The tear forgot as foon as shed,
The fun-fhine of the breaft:
Theirs buxom HEALTH, of rofy hue,
Wild WIT, INVENTION ever new,
And lively CHEER, of VIGOUR born;
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the lumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No fenfe have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet fee, how all around them wait,
The minifters of human fate,
And black MISFORTUNE's baleful train!
Ah! fhew them where in ambush ftand,
To feize their prey the murd'rous band!
Ah, tell them they are MEN!
Thefe fhall the fury PASSIONS tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Difdainful ANGER, pallid FEAR,
And SHAME, that skulks behind;
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