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With woeful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail !
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale
She call'd on Echo still through all the song;

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And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair ;—

And longer had she sung :—but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose:

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He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
And with a withering look

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And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

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While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his

head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

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Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And dashing soft from rocks around

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing

In hollow murmurs died away.

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But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

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Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen

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Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

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They would have thought who heard the strain
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids
Amidst the festal-sounding shades

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower

You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!

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Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page;—
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age:
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound :-
O bid our vain endeavours cease:
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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THE SONG OF DAVID

He sang of God, the mighty source
Of all things, the stupendous force
On which all strength depends:

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W. Collins

From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,
All period, power, and enterprise
Commences, reigns, and ends.

The world, the clustering spheres He made,

The glorious light, the soothing shade,

Dale, champaign, grove and hill:

The multitudinous abyss,

Where secrecy remains in bliss,

And wisdom hides her skill.

Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said

To Moses while Earth heard in dread,
And, smitten to the heart,

At once, above, beneath, around,
All Nature, without voice or sound,
Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'

INFANT JOY

'I have no name;

I am but two days old.'
-What shall I call thee?

'I happy am;

Joy is my name.'

-Sweet joy befall thee!

CLXXIX.

C. Smart

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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade,

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)

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How vain the ardour of the crowd,

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In Fortune's varying colours drest :

Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-
We frolic while 'tis May.

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T. Gray

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