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And many a towering grove of pine,

Whose gloom shut out the noon-day sung In shatter'd ruin lies supine,

Since first my wat’ry course begun.

And many a toiling race of man

Has joy'd in youth, and mourn'd in age, Since first my pensive view began

To trace their weary pilgrimage.

And many a nymph with sounding bow,

Slow-rolling eyes, and heavy locks, As young, as fair, as soft as thou,

Has chac'd the deer o'er yonder rocks:

And when the sun's meridian heat

With fervid splendour fir'd the heath, Oft have they sought my cool retreat,

With glowing breast and panting breath.

Yet, never did I pour my stream

To bathe a breast more pure than thines Or visit eyes in whose mild beam

So clear the gentler virtues shine.

When with light step thy naked feet

Move quick my primrose banks along, I bid my streams with murmur sweet

Their liquid melody prolong.

When Echo to thy voice replies

From yonder arch of rugged stone, Well pleas’d I lift my

humid

eyes, As blue and languid as thy own :

When from

yon hazle's pendant shade Sweet spring awakes the blackbird's strain, Come to my bosom, gentle maid,

And lave thy streaming locks again.

Pluck from my brink the flow’ry store

That blushing decks the infant year, And to increase their beauty more,

Deign round thy brow the wreath to wear.

And when the summer's ardent glow

Shrinks every brook in yonder plain, Come where my lucid waters flow,

And bathe thy graceful form again.

1

Nor yet, when wint’ry tempests howl,

To haunt my lonely margin cease, Thro' life's dark storms the virtuous soul

Finds Reason's steady light increase.

Hard ice, that crusts my current clear,

Renews more pure my sparkling stream ; Thus may Affliction's hand severe

Add lustre to the mental gem.

Where'er you rove, where'er you rest,

May Peace your pensive steps attend, And halcyon Innocence your breast

From each contagious blast defend !

ANSWER

TO

A POETICAL EPISTLE

FROM AN

INTIMATE FRIEND.

« I do not think my sister so to seek,
to Or so unprincipled in virtue's book
And that sweet peace which goodness bosoms ever.";

MILTON

Yes,

Es, even åmid these wilds forlorn,

Where shivering on the naked spray, The drooping songsters seem to mourn

The languid sun's declining ray ; While Nature faints in Winter's icy arms, My Delia's tender strain my pensive bosom warms. Ah! why does still that well-known strain

In sadly-plaintive numbers flow?
Must time and friendship mix in vain

Their lenient balm to soothe thy woe :
Ye Powers, who piety and truth reward,
Why could not these your spotless votary guard !

While round thy cradle Pity's doves

Fond hovering pour’d their tender moan, And all the pure and guiltless loves

Exulting, hail'd thee for their own : They fled, repelld by Wisdom's frown severe, While Patience hush'd the babe, and wip'd its tendertear.

Cease, then, dear partner of my breast; ,

Whose every joy and grief are mine; And hush each gloomy care to rest,

For virtue's purest rays are thine : Her cheering beams should gild thy languid hours, As flow'rets shine, refresh'd by morning showers.

Oh! why with selfish sorrow mourn,

And frequent pour the lonely tear ;
While beams of heavenly light adorn

The parted soul, so justly dear.
Enough to Nature's weakness now is given,
Let faith take wing, and seek her native heaven,

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