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SOLITUDE AFFORDS NO EASE TO A TROU.
BLED MIND.

YOUTH,'you're mistaken, if you think to find
In fhades a medicine for a troubled mind.
Wan Grief will haunt you wherefoe'er
you go,
Sigh in the breeze, and in the ftreamlet flow.
There pale Inaction pines his life away,
And, fatiate, curses the return of day.
There naked Frenzy, laughing wild with pain,
Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main.
There Superftition broods o'er all her fears,
⚫ And yells of dæmons in the Zephyr hears.
But if a hermit you're refolv'd to dwell,
And bid to focial life a last farewel,

'Tis impious———

God never made an independent man :
"Twould jar the concord of his general plan.
See every part of that stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the foul.
Should man through Nature folitary roam,
His will his fovereign, every where his home,
What

W

What force would guard him from the lion's jaw?

What swiftness wing him from the panther's
paw

Or fhould Fate lead him to fome fafer fhore,
Where panthers never prowl, nor lions roar,
Where Nature all her charms bestows,
Suns fhine, birds fing, flowers bloom, and wa-
ter flows;

Fool, doft thou think he'd revel on the store,
Abfolve the care of Heav'n, nor ask for more?

THE EVENING OF LIFE.

WE'LL ask no long-protracted treat,

(Since winter life is seldom sweet)

But when our feaft is o'er,

Grateful from table we'll arife,

Nor grudge our fons, with anxious eyes,

The relics of our store.

Thus

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go,
Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious fteps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.

While Confcience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,

And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind ́angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

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LORD COBHAM'S GARDENS.

IT puzzles much the fages' brains,
Where Eden ftood of yore;
Some place it in Arabia's plains;
Some fay, it is no more.

But Cobham can thefe tales confute,

As all the curious know;

For

For he has prov'd, beyond difpute,
That Paradife is STOW.

b་ས་ར་ནས་

FATHER FRANCIS'S PRAYER.

NE gay attire, ne marble hall,
Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall,
Ne cook of France, ne dainty board,
Bestow'd with pies of Peregord;
Ne power, ne fuch like idle fancies,
Sweet Agnes, grant to Father Francis.
Let me ne more myself deceive,
Ne more regret the toys I leave.
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train.
But not the good, perdie, nor fair,
'Gainft them I make ne vow, ne prayer;
But fuch aye welcome to my cell,
And oft, not always, with me dwell.
Then caft, fweet faint, a circle round,
And blefs from fools this holy ground;

From

From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton eld, and homely youth;
The gravely dull, and pertly gay:
Oh, banish these ! and, by my fay,
Right well I ween, that in this age
Mine house shall prove an heritage.

Infcription on his Cell.

BENEATH these mofs-grown roots, this ruftic cell,

Truth, Liberty, Content, fequester'd dwell. Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain, What drawing-room can boast so fair a train è

Infcription IN bis Cell.

SWEET bird, that fing'ft on yonder spray,
Pursue unharm'd thy fylvan lay :
While I beneath this breezy shade
In peace repose my careless head;

And,

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