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And sounding lyre

Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

He rais'd a mortal to the skies;

She drew an angel down.

THE HERMIT.

BY BEATTIE.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas then, by the cave of a mountain reclia'd,
A Hermit his nightly complaint thus began,
Though mournful his voice, his heart was resign'd,
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man:

"Ah, why thus abandon'd to darkness and woc, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass awayFull quickly they pass,—but they never return.

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The Moon half-extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladuess pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again.But Man's faded glory no change shall renew, Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.— But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn! O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"

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YE shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I;

-I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

-I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.

Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd ev'ry hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are pass'd, and I sigh;
And I griev'd that I priz'd them no more.

But why do I languish in vain?

Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?

They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure alone.

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart?
Yet I thought-but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart:
She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relic away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relic I bear,

And my solace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all-border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech is more beautiful green,
But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold!
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire, To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;

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