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There is, who deems all climes, all seasons fair, There is, who knows no restless passion's strife; Contentment, smiling at each idle care ;
Contentment, thankful for the gift of life;
She finds in Winter many a scene to please; The morning landscape fring'd with frost-work gay,
The sun at noon seen through the leafless trees,
She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow,
She bids for all our grateful praise arise
To him whose mandate spake the world to form; Gave Spring's gay bloom, and Summer's cheerful
And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's sounding storm.
FROM PSALM VIII.
ALMIGHTY POW'r, amazing are thy ways!
SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND,
MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR.
WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast eye?
That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine; Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enamel'd fairer meads than thine.
Art thou not lodg'd in fortune's warm embrace?
Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Bless'd in thy song, and bless'd in ev'ry grace
That wins the friend, and that enchants the fair?
Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;
Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.
For O! that nature on my birth had frown'd! Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell! Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound, Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewel.
But led by fortune's hand, her darling child,
Of folly studious, ev'n of vices vain,
Ah, vices! gilded by the rich and gay! I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain! Nor dropp'd the chase till Jessy was my prey. Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name, Expence, and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Sustain❜d by virtue, but betray'd by love.
School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles,
I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn; spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles, And feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.
Then, while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care,
To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?
Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame!
"Henry," she said, " by thy dear form subdu'd, See the sad relics of a nymph undone ; I find, I find this rising sob renew'd:
I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.
Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,
When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,
But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn?
Alas! no more the joyous morn appears
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame! For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lambs increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain, And talk of truth and innocence alone.