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And all, like controversial writing,
Were born with teeth, and sprung up fighting.

“ But what is this,” I hear you cry,

Which saucily provokes my eye?”— A thing unknown, without a name,

Born of the air and doomed to flame.


Her even lines her steady temper show,
Neat as her dress, and polished as her brow;
Strong as her judgement, easy as her air;
Correct though free, and regular though fair :
And the same graces o'er her pen preside,
That form her manners and her footsteps guide.


In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains, She moves our envy who so well complains ; In vain has proud oppression laid her low, So sweet a garland on her faded brow. Now, Auburn, now absolve impartial fate, Which if it made thee wretched, makes thee great:So, unobserved, some humble plant may bloom, Till crushed it fills the air with sweet perfume'; So, had thy swains in ease and plenty slept, Thy Poet had not sung, nor Britain wept. Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay, Unhonoured genius, and her swift decay; O Patron of the poor! it cannot be, While one



remains like thee!


Nor can the Muse desert our favoured isle,

Till thou desert the Muse and scorn her smile.




...... natura beatis Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.


O thou, the Nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth unaltered brow.

O come, in simple vest arrayed,
With all thy sober cheer displayed,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell ;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears

A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offered blow.

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