And when, the destin'd term at length complete, This Hercules is happiness! obey My voice, and live. Let thy celestial birth Lift and enlarge thy thoughts. Behold the way That leads to fame, and raises thee from earth. Immortal! Lo, I guide thy steps. Arise, Pursue the glorious path, and claim thy native skies. HYMN TO CONTENT. BY MRS. BARBAULD. O THOU, the Nymph with placid eye! Receive my temp'rate vow: Not all the storms that shake the pole O come, in simplest vest array'd, No more by varying passions heat, O gently guide my pilgrim feet Where in some pure and equal sky, Simplicity in Attic vest, And Innocence with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye; And Hope, who points to distant years, There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temp'rate joys in even tide, That rarely ebb or flow; And Patience there, thy sister meek, Her influence taught the Phrygian sage Inur'd to toil and bitter bread, But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy! In what brown hamlet dost thou joy To tell thy simple tale? The lowliest children of the ground, Moss-rose and violet, blossom round, And lily of the vale. O say what soft propitious hour When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, When Eve, her dewy star beneath, If such an hour was e'er thy choice, Low whisp'ring through the shade. THE EVENING PRIMROSE. BY DR. LANGHORNE. THERE And shun the splendid walks of fame; That far from Envy's lurid eye, The fairest fruits of Genius rear; Content to see them bloom and die In friendship's small, but genial sphere. Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far, In Eden's vale an aged hind, At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd, "Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow, "Nor thee, the vagrants of the field, "Nor thee, the hasty shepherd heeds, When love has fill'd his heart with cares; For flowers he rifles all the meads, For waking flowers--but thine forbears. "Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom, On night's chill shade, that fragrant breath; Let smiling suns those gems illume! Fair flower, to live unseen is death." Soft as the voice of vernal gales, That o'er the bending meadow blow; Or streams that steal through even vales, And murmur that they move so slow. Deep in her unfrequented bower, Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain; The Bird of Eve approv'd her flower, And answer'd thus the anxious swain: |