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Bless'd is the fair who shuns the place
But in the duties of a wife,
Has plac'd her soul's delight; By day she leads a happy life, And raptures crown the night.
Fresh as a leaf, and ever fair,
Her name and face shall shine While fruits of mutual love appear, Like clusters on the vine.
She like a plant, by water set,
Not so old maids, who lie alone,
What vain desires they feel;
Their charms, their hopes, together flown,
Like chaff before the gale.
While young, this great command they spurn, "Increase and multiply;"
But, punish'd in their age, they burn,
The Lord delights in those who wed,
Ode on the Death of Mr. Thompson.
SCENE NEAR THE THAMES.
In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave; Our year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave.
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds,
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
To hear the wood-land pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is dress'd And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest.
And oft as ease and health retire,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
But thou who own'st that earthy bed,
Yet lives there one whose heedless eye,
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide,
And see the fair, the valleys fade,
Dim night has veil'd the solemn view;
The genial meads, assigned to bless
Long, long thy stone and pointed clay
Conclusion of the House of Mourning.
To-day man's dress'd in gold and silver bright,
To-morrow lies in one that's made of lead :
To-day his house, tho' large, he thinks but small,