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ODE TO THE MORNING.
BY THE SAME.
HAIL to thy living light,
In varied beauty bright:
Away, ye goblins all! Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt; Whose vagrant feet have traced your secret haunt
Beside some lonely wall, Or shatter'd ruin of a moss-grown tower, Where, at pale midnight's stillest hour, Through each rough chink the solemn orb of night Pours momentary gleams of trembling light.
Away, ye elves, away!
Shrink at ambrosial Morning's living ray; That living ray, whose power benign Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye,
Where, throned in artless majesty, The cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustic shrine.
BY DR, COTTON.
DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
In folly's maze advance ;
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
Where love our hours employs ;
Te spoil our heart-felt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
And they are fools who roam:
And that dear hut, our home.
Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
That safe retreat, the ark;
Explored the sacred bark.
Though fools spurn Hymen’s gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.
Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
Whence pleasures ever rise :
And train them for the skies.
While they our wisest hours engage,
And crown our hoary hairs :
And recompense our cares.
No borrow'd joys: they're all our own, While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot : Monarchs! we envy not your state, We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.
Our portion is not largé, indeed ;
For Nature's calls are few :
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish with content
Nor aim beyond our power; For if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudent to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd when ills betide,
And pleased with favours given,
Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
We'll ask no long protracted treat
But when our feast is o'er,
The relics of our store,
Thus hand in hand through life we'll go, Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead :
While Conscience, like a faithful friend,
And cheer our dying breath;
And smooth the bed of death