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By love's respectful modesty, he deem’d
The theft profane, if aught profane to love
Can e'er be deem'd; and, struggling, from the shade
With headlong hurry fled: but first these lines,
Trac'd by his ready pencil, on the bank
With trembling hand he threw: “ Bathe on, my fair,
“ Yet unbeheld, save by the sacred eye
5. Of faithful love: I go to guard thy haunt,
“ To keep from thy recess each vagrant foot,
“ And each licent’ous eye.” With wild surprize,
As if to marble ftruck, devoid of sense,
A stupid moment motionless the stood:
So stands the statue * that enchants the world,
So bending, tries to vie the matchless boast,
The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.
Recov’ring, swift she flew to find those robes
Which blissful Eden knew not; and, array'd
In careless hafte, th’alarming paper snatch'd.
But when her DAMON's well-known hand she saw,
Her terrors vanish'd, and a softer train
Of mix'd emotions, hard to be describ’d,
Her sudden bosom seiz'd: shame void of guilt,
The charming blush of innocence, esteem
And-admiration of her lover's flame,
By modesty exalted : ev’n a sense
Of self-approving beauty stole across
Her busy thought. At length a tender calm,
Hush'd by degrees the tumult of her soul;
And on the spreading beach, that o'er the streain
Incumbent hung, lhe with the sylvan pen
Of rural lovers this confession carv’d,
Which foon her Damon kiss'd with weeping joy :

Dear youth! sole judge of what these verses mean, • By fortune too much favour’d, but by love,

Alas! not favour'd lefs, be still as now · Discreet: the time may come you need not fly.'

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* The Venus of Medicis.

IFRiches could prolong our stay,

To court them I'd begin ;
That when grim Minos came my way,

I'd bid him call again.
But since I find it all in vain,

And death pays no respect,
No longer shall they give me pain,

But treat them with neglect.
For foon or late the lot must come,

the debt we owe, And lay us in the filent tomb,

Whether we're rich or no.
Then give me, gods, but health and friends,

And I'll no longer grieve;
But laugh at care, which life attends,

And WEALTH to others leave.
The gen'rous glafs I'll freely quaff,

And fill it o'er and o'er, 'Till DEATH shall stop the jocund laugh,

By knocking at my door.


TO be, or not to be? that is the question ;

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The sings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by oppofing, end them?—To die ;-to fleep;No more ;-and, by a Neep, to say, we end The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks, That flesh is heir to ;-'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die ;--to Neep ;To Deep? perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub;

For in that seep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause ;-there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud-man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The infolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns-puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is fickly'd o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.-

THE HERMIT. A T the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's fong in the

grove'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin’d,

A HERMIT his nightly complaint thus began: Tho' mournful his numbers, his soul was resign'd;

He thought as a fage, tho’ he felt as a man. “ Ah! why thus abandon’d to darkness and woe,

Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? “ For spring shall return and a lover bestow,

“And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. “ Yet if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! “ Mourn, fweetest companion ; man calls thee

“ to mourn : "Osoothe him, whose pleasures,like thine, pass away!

“ Full quickly they pass—but they never return! “ Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

“ The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays; “ But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high

“ She shone, and the planets were loft in her blaze. “ Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendouragain: “ But man's faded glory no change shall renew;

“ Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain. 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:

“I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; “ For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, “ Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring

with dew. “ Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

“ Kind nature the embrio-blossom Thall fave: “ But when Ihall spring visit the mould'ring urn?

“ O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave :"


THICK-twisted brake, in the time of a storm,

Seem'd kindly to cover a meep:
So fnug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm,

It quietly footh'd him afleep.
The clouds are now scatter'd-thewinds are at peace;

The sheep to his pasture's inclin’d:
But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.
My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,

Consider before you get in;
Though judgment and sentence are país’d on your

By Jove you'll be fleec'd to the skin.


NEAR yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the fign-poft caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts in

fpir’d, Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir’d; Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound; And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour fplendours of that feftive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor ; The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of draw’rs by day; The pictures plac'd for ornament and use; The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flow’rs, and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Rang'd o’er the chimney, glisten’d in a row.

Vain transitory splendour! could not all Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor Thall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peafant Thall repair, To sweet obl’vion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail, No more the smith his dusky brow Thall clear; Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the reft.

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