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And all, like controversial writing,
“ 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.
ON A LADY'S WRITING.
Her even lines her steady temper show,
ON THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
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.
HYMN TO CONTENT.
...... natura beatis Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.
O thou, the Nymph with placid eye!
Receive my temperate vow:
And smooth unaltered brow.
O come, in simple vest arrayed,
To bless my longing sight;
And chaste subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
To find thy hermit cell ;
The modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
A vista to the sky.
There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
That rarely ebb or flow;
To meet the offered blow.