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Her influence taught the Phrygian sage

A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet :

Inured to toil and bitter bread,

He bowed his meek submitted head,
And kissed thy sainted feet.

But thou, O Nymph retired and coy! In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose, and violet blossom round,

O say

And lily of the vale.

what soft propitious hour

I best may choose to hail thy power,

And court thy gentle sway?

When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,

Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,

Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And every storm is laid ;—

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,

Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whispering through the shade.

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O WISDOM! if thy soft controul

Can soothe the sickness of the soul,

Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the calm of tender peace ;-
Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway,
And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'st with frown austere,

To nurse the brood of Care and Fear;

To bid our sweetest passions die,

And leave us in their room a sigh;

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O if thine aspect stern have power

To wither each poor transient flower

That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,

And dry the springs whence hope should flow;— Wisdom! thine empire I disclaim,

Thou empty boast of pompous name!

In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,

But never haunt my cheerful cell.

Hail to Pleasure's frolic train!

Hail to Fancy's golden reign!
Festive Mirth, and Laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child!
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith, and fond surprise!-
Let these, in fairy colours drest,
For ever share my careless breast:

Then, though wise I may not be,

The wise themselves shall

envy me.

THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING*.

Illic indocto primum se exercuit arcu;

Hei mihi quam doctas nunc habet ille manus!

TIBUL.

WHEN Cupid, wanton boy! was young,
His wings unfledged, and rude his tongue,
He loitered in Arcadian bowers,

And hid his bow in wreaths of flowers;

Or pierced some fond unguarded heart

With now and then a random dart :

But heroes scorned the idle boy,

And love was but a shepherd's toy.

* Addressed to the Author of Essays on Song-Writing.

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