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Thus is nature's vesture wrought
To inftruct our wand'ring thought,
Thus she dreffes green and gay,
To difperfe our cares away.

See on the mountain's fouthern fide'
Where the profpect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and fmall the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows crofs the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little diftant dangers feem.

[1] So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass.
As yon fummits, foft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the fame coarfe way;
The prefent's still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I fee!
Content me with a humble fhade,
My paffions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the foul;
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And mifers gather wealth and care.

Be full, ye courts! be great who will;
Search for peace with all skill;
Open wide the lofty door;
Seck her on the marble floor;
In vain ye fearch, fhe is not there;
In vain ye fearch the domes of care!
Grafs and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure clofe allied
Ever by each other's fide ;
And often by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush while all is ftill,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

[1] Read the moral reflections, which the poem contains, slowly, impressively, and with effect.



A season for remembering the poor.


In reading the following, let your tone of voice be smooth, easy, and unrestrained; blended with a pensive dignity of look and expression. WOW winter is come, with his cold chilling breath, And the verdure has dropp'd from the trees; All nature feems touch'd by the finger of death, And the streams are beginning to freeze. When wanton young lads, o'er the river can flide, And Flora attends us no more ; When in plenty you fit by a good fire-fide, Sure you ought to remember the poor.

When the cold feather'd fnow does in plenty defcend,
And whitens the prospect around;

When the keen cutting winds from the north fhall attend,
Hard chilling and freezing the ground;

When the hills and the dales are all candied with white, When the rivers congeal to the fhore,

When the bright twinkling ftars fhail proclaim a cold night, Then remember the state of the poor

When the poor harmless hare may be trac'd to the wood,
By her footsteps indented in fnow;

When the lips and the fingers are starting with blood;
When the markfman a cockshooting go;

When the poor robin red breast approaches the cot;
When the icicles hang at the door;

When the bowl smokes with fomething reviving and hot,
That's the time to remember the poor.

When a thaw fhall enfue, and the waters increase,
And the rivers all infolent grow;

When the fishes from prifon obtain a release;

When in danger the travellers go:

When the meadows are hid with the proud fwelling flool; When the bridges are useful no more;

When in health you enjoy every thing that is good,

Can you grumble to think on the poor?

Soon the day will be here, when a Saviour was born,
All the world fhould agree as one voice;
All nations unite to falute the blest morn ;
All ends of the earth should rejoice.

Grim death is depriv'd of his all-killing sting,
And the grave is triumphant no more;
Saints, angels, and men, hallelujahs fhall fing,
And the rich all remember the poor.


TENDERNESS OF MIND-On taking of bird's nefts.
HAVE found out a gift for my fair;


I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me that plunder forbear !
She will fay 'tis a barbarous deed.

For he ne'er can be true, she aver'd,

Who can rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold,
How that pity was due to a dove ;
That it ever attended the bold;

And fhe call'd it the fifter of love.


HE first of April's dawning ray,
Is little Lydia's natal day;
Pretty warblers of the wood,
Quit awhile your callow brood,
Gaily prune each gaudy wing,
Each a merry carol bring,
To commemorate the morn,
When my little maid was born.
Come, Aurora! bring thy hours,
All array'd in may morn flowers;



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Let each little fairy lip,
Of the pearly dew drop fip,
Nature pours out all her wealth,
Drink to her's and Lydia's health;
She I'm fure will not refufe,
Gratefully thofe gifts to ufe.
Oh Innocence! protect her youth,
Lead her down the paths of truth,
Culling fweet from every flower,
Truth has twin'd round virtue's bower,
There to dwell with fweet content,
Vitue's conftant refident.


Sweets too redolent will cloy;
Prudence mildly tempers joy;
Thorns may grow tho' fweets are near,
Pity oft will have her tear;
Tears will fart howe'r confin'd
From a feeling generous mind.
Let her not recline her head
Long on pleafure's rofy bed;
Pleafure does itfelf deftroy,
Be improvement then her toy,
Doing right her greatest joy.
Mindfull of her parent's nod,
And her duty to her God;
Tell her "to the good and wife,
Every place is paradife;



Every month an April morn, 6 When my little maid was born."




HE gaudy tulip, richly bright,
Fatigues the paufing eye;

And e'er it fades, the noisome leaves,
Offend the fenfe and die

But the young rofe, lefs gay than fweet, The eye delights to bear;

Broke by the ftorm, and bent to earth, Its fragrance ftill is there.

So flushes Vice the tainted cheek,
And fires the glowing eyes;
Yet leaves it wither'd by defpair,
And pale repentant fighs.
While Virtue, fhrinking from the ftorms
Of fortune, pride and hate,
Still boasts the inward peace that shines
Beneath the clouds of fate,




F it be true, celeftial powers,
That you have form'd me fair,
And that in all my vainest hours,
My mind has been my care:
Then in return, I beg this grace,
As you were ever kind;

What envious time takes from my face,
Bestow upon my





HEN murmur not at Heaven's fix'd decree,
But as you're happy, fo contented be ;
Your country'll rife the emporium of wealth,
Your country's fons the fons of peace and health.
Hail bleft Columbia! whofe delightful foil
Repays with richest good the labourer's toil!
What dainties thy delicious gardens yield!
What rich fupplies adorning every field!
Happy thy fons, around thy fplendid board,
Who taste the luxuries which thy fields afford!
Our fathers freed from dire oppreffion's hand,
Found an afylum on this heavenly land.
The favage Canaanites have left our foil,
We the true Ifrael tafte the wine and oil ;
With milk and honey our fair country flows,

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