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E’en Wisdom's high conceit great wants would feel,
If not supply'd from Fancy's boundless store; And nought but shame makes pow'r itself conceal,
That she, to satisfy, muit promise more.
But tho' experience will not fail to how,
Howe'er its truth man's weakness may upbraid, That what he mostly values here below,
Owes half its relish to kind Fancy's aid ;
Yet should not Prudence her light wing command,
She may too far extend her heedless Aight; For Pleasure foon shall quit her fairy-land
If Nature's regions are not held in sight.
From Truth's abode, in search of kind deceit,
Within due limits she may fafely roam ; If roving does not make her hate retreat, And with averfion fhun her
But thanks to those, whose fond parental care
To Learning's paths my youthful steps confind, I need not fhun a state which lets me share
Each calm delight that soothes the ftudious mind.
While genius lafts, his fame shall ne'er decay,
Whose artful hand first caus'd its fruits to spread ; In lasting volumes stampt the printed lay, And taught the Muses to embalm the dead.
To him I owe each fair instructive page,
Where Science tells me what her sons have known ; Collects their choicest works from ev'ry age,
And makes me wise with knowledge not my own.
Books rightly us'd may ev'ry state secure :
peace defend; May teach us how to fhun, or to endure,
The foe malignant, and the faithless friend.
Should rigid Want withdraw all outward aid,
Kind stores of inward comfort they can bring ; Should keen Disease life's tainted stream invade,
Sweet to the soul from them pure health may spring.
Should both at once man's weakly frame infeft,
Some letter'd charm nay still relief supply; 'Gainst all events preparé his patient breast,
And make him quite resign'd to live, or die.
For tho' no words can time or fate restrain;
No sounds suppress the call of Nature's voice; Tho' neither rhymes, nor spells, can conquer pain,
Nor magic's self make wretchedness our choice;
Yet reason, while it forms the subtile plan,
Soine purer source of pleasure to explore, Must deem it vain for that poor pilgrim, man,
To think of refting 'till his journey's o'er ;
Muft deem each fruitless toil, by heav'n design'd
To teach him where to look for real blifs ; Else why should heav'n excite the hope to find
What balk'd pursuit must here for ever miss ?
The GROTTO: An Ode to SILENCE.
By the Same.
OME, musing Silence, nor refuse to shed
Thy sober influence o'er this darkling cell:
Nor dost thou only, love to dwell
For still at eve's serenest hour,
Or up the dusky lawn, to spy
For here, with many a folemn myftic rite,
Wert thou invok'd to consecrate the ground,
Or ere with moss this shaggy roof was crown'd :
Hail! blessed parent of each purer thought,
Here wilt thou never fail to find
Thy serious lessons to attend.
Whether thou bid mę meditate
What toils his virtue ought to brave,
bid me trace Each wond'rous proof of heav'n's transcendent grace ; Then breathe same sparks of that celestial fire,
Which in the raptur'd seraph glows above, Where sainted myriads crowd the joyful choir,
And harp their praises round the throne of love.
The trifling fons of Levity and Pride
Nor shall loud Riot's thoughtless train
No foe to peace shall here intrude.
Save such as soothes the lift'ning fense,
Or where the sea's imperfect roap
Or oft to vary her exhaustless lay,
Nor clofe her strain, till dawns the noisy day,
Without thy aid, to happier tasteful art,
For only where thou doft preside,
And reason's better talk would fail,