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pomp and royal state aloof,

Their shining guide its beams withdrew;

And points their path, and points their view, To Bethlehem's rustic cots, to Mary's lowly roof.

There the bright sentinel kept watch,

While other stars arose and set;

For there, within its humble thatch,

Weakness and

power, and heaven and earth were met.

Now, sages, now your search give o'er,
Believe, fall prostrate, and adore !

Here spread your spicy gifts, your golden offerings here;

No more the fond complaint renew,

Of human guilt and mortal woe, Of knowledge checked by doubt, and hope with fear:

What angels wished to see, ye view ;

What angels wished to learn, ye know;Peace is proclaimed to man, and heaven begun below.

TO MR.

MR. BARBAULD,

NOVEMBER, 14, 1778.

COME, clear thy studious looks awhile,

"T is arrant treason now

To wear that moping brow, When I, thy empress, bid thee smile.

What though the fading year

One wreath will not afford

To grace the poet's hair,

Or deck the festal board ;

A thousand pretty ways we 'll find
To mock old Winter's starving reign;
We'll bid the violets spring again,

Bid rich poetic roses blow,
Peeping above his heaps of snow;

We'll dress his withered cheeks in flowers,

And on his smooth bald head

Fantastic garlands bind :

Garlands, which we will get

From the gay blooms of that immortal year,

Above the turning seasons set, Where young ideas shoot in Fancy's sunny bowers.

A thousand pleasant arts we 'll have
To add new feathers to the wings of Time,
And make him smoothly haste away:

We'll use him as our slave,

And when we please we'll bid him stay,

And clip his wings, and make him stop to view

Our studies, and our follies too;

How sweet our follies are, how high our fancies climb.

We'll little care what others do,

And where they go, and what they say ;

Our bliss, all inward and our own,

Would only tarnished be, by being shown.

The talking restless world shall see,
Spite of the world we 'll happy be;

But none shall know

How much we're so,

Save only Love, and we.

TO MR. BARBAULD,

WITH A MAP OF THE LAND OF MATRIMONY*.

THE sailor worn by toil and wet with storms,

As in the wished-for port secure he rides,
With transport numbers o'er the dangers past
From threatning quicksands and from adverse tides.

Joyous he tells among his jocund mates
Of loud alarms that chased his broken sleep,

And blesses

every

kinder star that led

His favoured vessel though the raging deep.

* The Map published under this title was a jeu-d'esprit of Mrs. Barbauld's.-EDITOR.

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