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To former scenes our fancy thus returns,

To former scenes that little pleas'd when here! Our Winter chills us, and our Summer burns, Yet we dislike the changes of the year.

To happier lands then restless fancy flies, [flow Where INDIAN streams thro' green savannahs Where brighter suns and ever-tranquil skies,

Bid new fruits ripen, and new flow'rets blow.

Let truth these fairer happier lands survey,
There half the year descends in watʼry storms;
Or nature sickens in the blaze of day,

And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms.

There oft as toiling in the maizy fields,
Or homeward passing on the shadeless way,
His joyless life the weary lab'rer yields,
And instant drops beneath the deathful ray.

Who dreams of nature free from nature's strife?
Who dreams of constant happiness below?
The hope-flush'd ent'rer on the stage of life;
The youth to knowledge unchastis'd by woe.
For me, long toil'd on many a weary road,
Led by false hope in search of many a joy ;
I find in earth's bleak clime no blest abode,
No place, no season sacred from annoy.

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For me, while Winter

rages

round the plains,

With his dark days I'll human life compare;

Not those more fraught with clouds, and winds, and

rains,

Than this with pining pain and anxious care.

O whence this wondrous turn of mind our fate!
Whate'er the season or the place possest,

We ever murmur at our present state;

And yet the thought of parting breaks our rest:

Why else, when heard in ev'ning's solemn gloom, Does the sad knell that, sounding o'er the plain, Tolls some poor lifeless body to the tomb,

Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain?

The voice of reason echoes in my ear,

Thus thou ere long must join thy kindred clay ;
No more these "nostrils breathe the vital air,"
No more these eyelids open on the day.

O Winter, round me spread thy joyless reign,
Thy threat'ning skies in dusky horrors drest!
Of thy dread rage no longer I'll complain,
Nor ask an EDEN for a transient guest.

Enough has Heaven indulg'd of joy below,
To tempt our tarriance in this lov'd retreat :
Enough has Heaven, ordain'd of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier seat.

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,
The clear calm ether at the close of day.

She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow,
When blust'ring CAURUS purifies the air,
When moist AQUARIUS pours the fleecy snow,
That makes th' impregnate glebe a richer harvest
bear:

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 skies,

And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's sounding storm.

HYMN,

FROM PSALM VIII.

ALMIGHTY Pow'r, amazing are thy ways!
Above our knowledge, and above our praise!
How all thy works thy excellence display ;
How fair, how great, how wonderful are they!
Thy hand yon wide-extended heaven up-rais'd,
Yon wide-extended heaven with stars emblaz’d,
Where each bright orb, since time his course begun,
Has roll❜d a mighty world, or shin'd a sun :
Stupendous thought! how sinks all human race!
A point, an atom in the field of space!
Yet ev❜n to us, O LORD, thy care extends,
Thy bounty feeds us, and thy pow'r defends;
Yet ev❜n to us, as delegates of Thee,
Thou giv'st dominion over land and sea ;
Whate'er or walks on earth, or flits in air,
Whate'er of life the wat'ry regions bear;
All these are ours, and for th' extensive claim,
We owe due homage to thy Sacred Name!
Almighty Pow'r! how wondrous are thy ways!
How far above our knowledge and our praise!

AN ELEGY,

DESCRIBING THE

SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND,

ON THE

MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR.

SHENSTONE.

WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his down

That

cast eye?

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.

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