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FARE

CONTENTMENT.

AREWELL, aspiring thoughts, no more My soul shall quit the peaceful shore,

To plow ambition's main ; Fallacious as the harlot's kiss, It promises uncertain bliss,

And gives us certain pain.

A beauteous prospect first it shows,
Which, while we gaze, more tempting grows,
And charms the wand'ring sight;

But soon, too soon, alas! 'tis lost

And all our mighty plans are cross'd-
Sunk into endless night.

'Midst folly, misery, and pain,
We ramble on from scene to scene,
By flatt'ring Hope betray'd;
I'm weary of the painful chase-
Let others run the endless race,
To catch a flying shade.

Let others boast their useless wealth;
Have I not happiness and health?
Which riches cannot give :
Let fools then after honours soar,
And, changing liberty for pow'r,
In golden shackles live.

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'Tis time, at length, I should be wise,
'Tis time to seek substantial joys;
Joys out of fortune's pow'r:
Wealth, titles, dignities, and fame,
Are toys the blind capricious dame
Takes from us ev'ry hour.

Come, white-rob'd Virtue, fill my breast, And bring Content, thy daughter, dress'd In ever-smiling charms :

Let sacred friendship, too, attend,

A friendship worthy of my friend,
Such as my Lælius warms.

With these, I'll in my bosom make
A bulwark fortune cannot shake,
Though all her storms arise;
Look down and pity gilded slaves,
Despise ambition's worthless knaves,
And wish the fools were wise.

T. Leybourn.

ЕРІТАРН.

BENEATH this stone, a lump of clay

Lies Arrabella Young;

Who on the twenty-fourth of May

Began to hold her tongue.

THE MUSE;

OR, POETICAL ENTHUSIASM.

THE Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
The poet's birth, I ask not where,
His place, his name, they're not my care;
Nor Greece, nor Rome, delights me more
Than Tagu's bank, or Thames's shore:
From silver Avon's flow'ry side

Though Shakespeare's numbers sweetly glide,
As sweet from Morven's desert hills,
My ear the voice of Ossian fills.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Nor bigot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me blame the page;
I scorn not all that Dryden sings,
Because he flatters courts and kings;
And from the master lyre of Gray,
When pomp of music breaks away,
Not less the sound my notice draws,
For that 'tis heard in freedom's cause.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Where wealth's bright sun propitious shines,
No added lustre marks the lines;

Where want extends her chilling shades,
No pleasing flower of fancy fades ;
A scribbling peer's applauded lays

Might claim, but claim in vain, my praise
From that poor youth, whose tales relate
Sad Juga's fears, and Bawdin's fate.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
When fame her wreath well-earn'd bestows,
My breast no latent envy knows;

My Langhorne's verse I love to hear,
And Beattie's song delights my ear:
And his, whom Athen's tragic maid
Now leads through Scarning's lonely glade,
While he for British nymphs bids flow
Her notes of terror and of woe.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
Or be the verse or blank or rhyme,
The theme or humble or sublime;
If Pastoral's hand my journey leads
Through harvest fields, or new-mown meads;
If Epic's voice sonorous calls

To Oeta's cliffs, or Salem's walls;

Enough-the Muse, the Muse inspires!

My soul the tuneful strain admires.

Scott's Poctical Works.

2

SONG.

SHALL I, like an hermit, dwell
On a rock, or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival ev'ry day?
If she undervalues me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel gold,
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too;
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hair, or precious eyes;
If she lays them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake;
And let ev'ry lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?

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