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Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,

Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the linnet in the bush,
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat,
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy spray,
Wearied then, and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest.
This thy present happy lot,
This, in time, will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy Time prepares;

And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.



JUNE 15, 1724.

VOTARY to public zeal,
Minister of England's weal,
Have leisure for a song,


Tripping lightly o'er the tongue,
Swift and sweet in every measure,
Tell me, Walpole, have you leisure?
Nothing lofty will I sing,

Nothing of the favourite king;
Something, rather, sung with ease,
Simply elegant to please.

Fairy virgin, British Muse,
Some unheard-of story choose:
Choose the glory of the swain,
Gifted with a magic strain,
Swaging grief of every kind,
Healing, with a verse, the mind:
To him came a man of

power, To him, in a cheerless hour;

When the swain, by Druids taught,
Soon divined his irksome thought,
Soon the maple harp he strung,
Soon, with silver-accent, sung.
'Steerer of a mighty realm,
Pilot waking o'er the helm,
Blessing of thy native soil,
Weary of a thankless toil,
Cast repining thought behind,
Give thy trouble to the wind.

Mortal, destined to excel,
Bear the blame of doing well,
Like the worthies great of old,
In the list of Fame enroll'd.
What, though titles thou decline?
Still the more thy virtues shine.
Envy, with her serpent eye,
Marks each-praise that soars on high.
To thy lot resign thy will:
Every good is mix'd with ill.
See, the white unblemish'd rose
On a thorny bramble blows:
See, the torrent pouring rain
Does the limpid fountain stain:
See, the giver of the day

Urgeth on, through clouds, his way:
Nothing is entirely bless'd

Envy does thy worth attest.

'Pleasing visions, at command, Answer to my voice and hand; Quick, the blissful scene prepare, Sooth the patriot's heavy care: Visions, cheering to the sight, Give him earnest of delight.


Wise disposer of affairs,
View the end of all thy cares!
Forward cast thy ravish'd
See the gladdening harvest rise:
Lo, the people reap thy pain!
Thine the labour, theirs the gain.
Yonder turn, awhile, thy view,
Turn thee to yon spreading yew,
Once the gloomy tree of Fate,
Once the plighted virgin's hate:

Now, no longer does it grow,
Parent of the warring bow:
See, beneath the guiltless shade,
Peasants shape the plough and spade,
Rescued ever from the fear

Of the whistling shaft and spear.
Lo, where Plenty comes, with Peace!
Hear the breath of murmur cease:
See, at last, unclouded days;
Hear, at last, unenvied praise.
Nothing shall thy soul molest;
Labour is the price of rest.

Mortal, destined to excel,
Bless the toil of doing well!'



Dublin, July 31, 1725.

POWER o'er every power supreme,

Thou the poet's hallow'd theme,
From thy mercy-seat on high,
Hear my numbers, hear my cry.
Breather of all vital breath,
Arbiter of life and death,
Oh! preserve this innocence,
Yet unconscious of offence,
Yet in life and virtue growing,
Yet no debt to nature owing.
Thou, who givest angelic grace

To the blooming virgin face,
Let the fell disease not blight

What thou madest for man's delight:

O'er her features let it pass
Like the breeze o'er springing grass.
Gentle as refreshing showers
Sprinkled over opening flowers.
O, let years alone diminish
Beauties thou wast pleased to finish.
To the pious parents give
That the darling fair may live:
Turn to blessings all their care,
Save their fondness from despair.
Mitigate the lurking pains
Lodged within her tender veins;
Soften every throb of anguish,
Suffer not her strength to languish :
Take her to thy careful keeping,
And prevent the mother's weeping.




AUGUST 10, 1725.

LITTLE charm of placid mien,
Miniature of Beauty's queen,
Numbering years, a scanty nine,
Stealing hearts without design;
Young inveigler, fond in wiles,
Prone to mirth, profuse in smiles,
Yet a novice in disdain,
Pleasure giving without pain,
Still caressing, still caress'd,
Thou and all thy lovers bless'd,

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