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"Beneath my rural roof contented live,
"And taste that bliss which London cannot give.”
Thus blest retirement, calm content and ease,
Took my young mind, and still their objects please:
I praise the fate which kindly fix'd me down
At least an hundred miles from Court and Town.
In yon fair vale my modest dwelling stands,
Its humble site no distant view commands;
The narrow scene, by sloping hills confin'd,
Speaks the contentment of its master's mind:
A chrystal stream the verdant mead divides,
Which by no torrent stain'd, unruffled glides
Clear and serene through all its winding ways;
Such be the peaceful tenor of my days!
On its fresh banks arise spontaneous flowers,
Around her rural blessings Plenty pours.
Nature almost prevents the farmer's toil,
So rich the clime, so fruitful is the soil.
Soon in full growth the sapling woods you see;
And the same hand that plants, may fell the tree.
Great Pan with pleasure on these lawns might rove,
And all Arcadia lives in yonder grove.
My life shall pass unknown, unenvied here,
And health and peace attend me through the year.
Here all their joys the varying seasons bring,
Here will I listen to the choir of spring;
In summer's heat these cooling shades I chuse,
To walk and trifle with the pastoral muse;
The toil of autumn here let me behold;
Here chace with exercise the wintry cold.
Here, tho' no flatterers wait my fame to raise,
Yet here shall truth my few plain merits praise.

* Alluding to a small Wood, with a Cottage, &c. in it.

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Still may some virtues with the months roll round;
Still at my door warm Charity be found:
May soft Humanity, the poor man's friend,
Her aid to sickness and to misery lend;
May all who need it, share my field's increase,
And Heaven so bless me, as I mean to bless!
-Thus let me live, a plain unpractis'd youth,
Who wish no more than honesty and truth,
For airs polite most awkwardly unfit,

And much too dull (I know it) for a wit.
Thus through the world steal bashfully unknown,
Save to my neighbour and my friend alone;
'Tis theirs to tell you, if they tell you true,
Plain tho' my manners, they are gentle too.
Thus let me live, and live without a foe,
The world will spare the man it does not know.

IMITATION OF MARTIAL.

WHY see we Spindle all so sad,

Why in grief's gloomiest trappings clad?
"Sad!" you reply-" With grief I speak,
"My wife's dear brother died last week.”
What is the rich Equestrian gone,
Before the age of twenty-one,
From whom your wife inherits clear
At least three thousand pounds a year?
Spindle! 'tis sad-most melancholy.
I'm sorely vext it should befall ye.

N. B. HALHED, ESQ.

ADDRESS TO POVERTY.

"Tis not that look of anguish, bath'd in tears,
O, Poverty! thy haggard image wears-
"Tis not those famish'd limbs, naked, and bare
To the bleak tempest's rains, or the keen air
Of winter's piercing winds, nor that sad eye
Imploring the small boon of charity-
'Tis not that voice, whose agonizing tale
Might turn the purple cheek of grandeur pale;
Nor all that host of woes thou bring'st with thee,
Insult, contempt, disdain, and contumely,
That bid me call the fate of those forlorn,
Who 'neath thy rude oppression sigh and mourn:
But chief, relentless pow'r! thy hard control,
Which to the earth bends low th' aspiring soul;
Thine iron grasp, thy fetters drear, which bind
Each gen'rous effort of the struggling mind!-
Alas! that Genius, melancholy flow'r,
Scarce op'ning yet to Even's nurt'ring show'r,
Shou'd, by thy pitiless and cruel doom,
Wither, ere nature smiles upon her bloom;

That Innocence, touch'd by thy dead'ning wand,
Shou'd pine, nor know one outstretch'd guardian hand!

For this, O Poverty! for them I sigh,

The helpless victims of thy tyranny!

For this, I call the lot of those severe,

Who wander 'mid thy haunts, and pine unheeded there!

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LOVE AND PRUDENCE.

BY LAURA SOPHIA TEMPLE.

"Twas yet the dawn of youth's gay hour
Ere mild content had fled my bower:
Joy's rosy orb illum'd my sky,
And Fancy lit my roving eye;

I laugh'd at Danger's whisper'd threat,
With maddest hopes my vain heart beat;
'Twas then that Prudence cross'd my way,
And often, often would she say—

"Check thy wild course, and follow me."

I murmur'd at her harsh command,
I would not take her offer'd hand.
"What! (I exclaim'd,) already come,
All my best feelings to benumb?
Grant to my prayers a short delay,
Oh call again some other day;

Full soon will Time my minutes steal,
And on my forehead fix his seal :

Then, then, cold Nymph, I'll follow thee."

She sigh'd and went;-I dropt a tear,-
But still pursued my mad career.
While thus I joyous skipt along,
I heard a soft and melting song;

Onward I bounded,-for the strain
Thrill'd to my heart, and pierc'd my brain;
But Prudence stopt me;-tho' repell'd,
Still she return'd, my steps withheld,
And mournful whisper'd, "Follow me."
I turn'd me from her steadfast eye,
And from her presence long'd to fly.
Oh! it was Love's voluptuous lay
Tempted my truant feet to stray;
That o'er my cheated senses stole,
And robb'd of energy my soul;
That bade my tongue to Prúdence say,
"Thou meddling fool, away! away!
I cannot-will not follow thee."
O'er flow'ry paths I gaily stept;
Prudence the while look'd on and wept:
I gaz'd on Love's enchanting smile,
And doated on the gentle wile:
'Tis not for my weak lips to tell
The magic of each wond'rous spell,
Which did my bosom-peace betray,
And tempted still my tongue to say,
"Prudence, I will not follow thee."
Thus was my feeble judgment led
By all that Love or look'd or said.
Thus was my raw, unpractic'd youth
Deceiv'd by Falsehood, deck'd in truth:
But when I prov'd that angel smile
The worthless covering of guile;
Oh! when my dark and vast despair
Had found his promises were air,
Then did remorse my bosom rend,
And clasping Prudence as my friend,
"Lead on, (I cried) I'll follow thee."

EXETER, APRIL 20, 1806.

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