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The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger lead; The fteer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet; The smiling infant in his hand thall take The crefted basilisk and speckled snake, Pleas'd, the green luftre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem ! rise! Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes ! See, a 'long race thy spacious courts adorn; See future fons, and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kingsa And heap'd with products of Sabæn springs ! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See heav'n its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day. No more the rising Sun shall gild the morn, Nor ev’ning Cynthia fill her filver horn; But loft, diffolv'd in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze

O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine • Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains;
Thy realm for ever lafts, thy own Mefliah reigns /

AN ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE

LADY. W HAT beck’ning ghost, along the moon-light

thade,
Invites my step, and points to yonder glade ?
'Tis the!-But why that bleeding bofom gor'd ?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ?
Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly, tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,

To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die ?

Why bade ye elle, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods!
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage;
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Useless,, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres ;
Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, neep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And fep'rate from their kind'red dregs below;

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SO

POETICAL
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood !
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death ;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. -
Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall :
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates :
There passengers shall stand, and pointing, say,
(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way,)
Lo! these were they whose fouls the Furies steel'd,
And curs’d with hearis unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away;
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perilh all whore breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone, (oh, ever-injur'd shade!).
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rights unpaid ?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear,
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?

What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polith'd marble emulate thy face !
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb ?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast :
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot:
A heap of dust alone reniains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays, .
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form Thall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

ODE ON SOLITUDE.*

HAPPY the man whose with and care

A few paternal acres bound; Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground,

+ Written by our author at about twelve years old."

1

Wbore herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks fupply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.
Bless'd, who can unconcern'dly find.

Hours, dy's, and years side soft away ;
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night; study and cafe

Together mix'd ; sweet recreation !
And innocence, which moft does please

with meditation, Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN

TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly Aame!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss, of dying! *
Cease, fond nåture, cease thy strife,
And let me languith into life!

Hark! they whisper ; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this abforbs me quite ?

Steals my senses, shuts my fight,
*Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be death?

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