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They know not; yet the pompous name Vertu
To th' idle pageant give: she cruel prowde
Deals magic charms emong the carelesse crowde,
And does them all to hideous apes transmew.
But fear not thou the minion's magic pride,
For Physis is thy guide:

Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell,
Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, farewell.
To Cosme's polisht court thy steps I'll lead,
My sister she, tho' eft we strangers seem;
Farre otherwise of us the wise aread,
But follies' feeble eyes of things misdeem.
The straw-roof'd cot, the pastur'd mead I love,
The mavis-haunted grove,

The moss-clad mountaine hoar, a rugged scene;
Along the streamlet's mazie margent rove,
That sweetly steals the broken rocks atween:
She thro' the manner'd cittie powres the flame
Of hie-atchieved fame,

The star-bright guerdon of the great and good;
And breathes her vivid spirit thro' the mind
Whose gen'rous aimes extend to all mankind,
And vindicate the worth of noble blood;
Such as in bowre Lycean holding place
The man of Spargrove grace.

Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell,
Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, farewell.
Als like a girlond her enring around

The sphere-born Muses lyring heav'nly strains;
The graces eke with bosoms all unzon'd,
A trinal band that concord sweet maintains:
And who is she, that placed them atween
Seems a fourth grace I ween?

So looks the rubie pretious rare, enchaced

In the bright crownet of a maiden queen.
Each science too with verdant bay-leaves graced,
With honour brought from attic land again,
Adorns the radiant train.

Come then, let nobler aimes thy soul inspire;
But bring the cherub Innocence along,
And Contemplation sage, on pineon strong
Hie-soaring ore yon' lamping orb of fire.-
Thus piped the Doric oate, whiles echoes shrill,
To fountaine, dale, and hill

Resyllabling the notes, this burden tell,

Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, farewell

AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

BY THE SAME.

BE farre, & farre from me the forged show,
The vaunted vanity of lofty life;

But give me the calm peace of lovely low,
From envy shelter'd, and remov'd from strife!
Let my small barke, unequal to sustaine
The rough sea's toylsome paine,

With tempests deadly dangeroust ytost,

And foul with wrecks, the shelt'ring harbor gaine,
Or ride securely near the rockless coast:
No marchant she, cunning in tradefull sleight
To vend her simple freight;

That simple freight sweet heav'n enfortunize!
My wealthfull peace may no rude stour emmove;
Oh save what, more than misers gold, I prize,
Oh save my innocence, and save my love!

HYMN TO HEALTH.

NOONTIDE E now glows in all its power:
Sacred shall be this tranquil hour,

As though some God were near:
Be mine, while lingering heats prevail,
And silent sleeps the vagrant gale,
To fix a temple here.

Yon heav'ns high-arching o'er my head,
This verdant turf by Nature spread,

These wild sweets flowering round,
The rites prescrib'd, oh! Health, proclaim,
Here be thy altar, heavenly dame,
This be thy holy ground.

"Twas thus at noon, as sings the swain *,
Who tun'd the simple Doric strain,
Shepherds retiring lay;

And, while in awe they dropp'd the reed,
And careless left their flocks to feed,
To Pan would reverence pay.

Thus, too, on Mona's secret heights,
The Druid paid his mystic rites,
And vervain duly spread;

And thus, while Silence listen'd round,
Encircling wide the sacred ground,
In meek devotion prayed.

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I, too, with wearied steps and slow,
For I have reach'd this green hill's brow,
Now rest, at ease reclin'd;
Feasting, while round I turn my eyes,
And view the mingling hills arise,
With solemn thoughts my mind.

Oh! Parent blest of young delight,
Fair Health, now glide before my sight
In more than mortal grace;
With roses blushing on thy cheek,
In radiant smile, and dimple sleek,
And harmony of face.

Let Love still move thy matron breast,
And let thy flowery-cinctur'd vest
In folds majestic flow;-
Splendent as sunbeams be thy hair,
In braids bright waving in the air,
And bright thy neck as snow.

Yet what avails? To thee in vain
I pour the pious warbled strain,
The fruitless incense burn:
I see thee smiling still and sweet,
Yet hastening far from my retreat,
Ah! never to return.

Enslav'd to love, consum'd by thought,
With books, and verse, and follies fraught,
Too long I slighted thee;
Oh! how my youth has pass'd away,
And now I feel my strength decay,
And now thou slightest me.

Ah! flowers, which look, in vain, so gay; Ah! gales, to me which idly play;

Ah! birds, that vainly sing:

The bloom of Spring, the Summer's flow'r,
And golden Autumn's milder store,
To me no pleasure bring.

Go, then, more kind, to Stella go;
Give her the pure vermilion glow,
And streak her eye with fire;
Still the dire throbbings of her heart,
Bid Languor's listless form depart,
And all her soul respire.

And let her drink th' ambrosial gales,
Which by thy springs, and hills, and vales,
Their balmy influence shed;
There halest herbs luxurious grow,
And flowers with brightest colours glow,
Aud daintiest odours spread.

Then shall the seas, and earth, and skies,
With double splendors feast her eyes,
Her breast with rapture fill;
Then shall she bid her sounding lyre,
(For Stella has the Poet's fire)

With ardent numbers thrill.

Thus deign, oh Health! to hear my prayer, And oft-times here will I repair;

For shouldst thou not impart

Thy healing genuine warmth to me,
Still shall my incense rise to thee,
And that shall warm my heart.

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