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THE midnight moon ferenely finiles

O’er nature's soft repose;
No low’ring cloud obscures the sky,

No rufiling tempelt blows.
Now ev'ry passion links to reft,

The throbbing heart lies still;
And varying schemes of life no more

Dittract the lab’ring will..
In filence hush'd, to REASON's voice

Attends each mental pow'r:
Come, dear EMILIA, and enjoy

Reflection's fav’rite hour. Come! while the peaceful scene invites,

Let's search this ample round, Where shall the lovely fleeting form

Of HAPPINESS be found?
Does it amidst the frolic mirth

Of gay affemblies dwell?
Or, hide beneath the folemn gloom,

That shades the hermit's cell.
How oft the laughing brow of Joy

A fick’ning heart conceals!
And through the cloitier's deep recess,

Invading sorrow fieals.
In vain through beauty, fortune, wit,

The fugitive we trace;
It dwells not in the faithless smile,

That brightens clodio's face.
Perhaps the joy to these deny’d,

The heart in FRIENDSHIP finds;
Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit,
Of vis’onary minds!


Howe'er our varying notions rove,

Yet all agree in one,
To place its being in fome state

At distance from our own.
O blind to each indulgent aim,

Of pow'r supremely wise;
Who fancy HAPPINESS in ought

The hand of heav'n denies ! Vain is alike the joy we feek,

And vain what we poffefs,
Unless harmonious REASON tunes

The passions into peace.
To temper'd wishes, juft defires,

Is HAPPINESS confin'd;
And, deaf to folly's call, attends

The music of the mind.


I HATE that drum’s discordant found,

Parading round, and round, and round: To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To fell their liberty for charms Of tawdry lace, and glittring arms;

And when AMBITION's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that DRUM's difcordant found,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows'tears, and ORPHANS' moans;

And all that mis’ry's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

HAIL to thy living light,

Ambrofial MORN! all hail thy rofeate ray! That bids


nature all her charms display In varied beauty bright! That bids each dewy-spangled flow’ret rise, And dart around its vermeil eyes; Bids silver lustre grace yon' sparkling tide, That winding warbles down the mountain's fide.

Away, ye goblins all ! Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt; Whose vagrant feet have trac'd your secret haunt

Befide fome lonely wall, . Or satter'd ruin of a mofs-grown tow'r, Where, at pale midnight's fiillest hour, Through each rough chink the folemn orb of night Pours momentary gleams of trembling light.

Away, ye elves, away!

Shrink at ambrosial morning's living ray:
That living ray, whose pow'r benign

Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye,
Where, thron’d in artless majesty,
The cherub beauty fits on nature's rustic shrine,

No plate had john and Joan to hoard,

Plain folk, in humble plight;
One only tankard crown'd their board,

And that was fill'd each night.
Along whose inner bottom sketch'd,

In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd

A baby angel's face.
John swallow'd first a mod’rate sup;

But JOAN was not like JOHN ;
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She fwill'd till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair,

But she ne'er chang’d a jot;
She lov'd to see the angel there,

And therefore drain'd the pot.
When John found all remonstrance vain,

Another card he play'd,
And, where the angel itood so plain,

He got a devil pourtrayed.
Joan faw the horns, JOAN saw the tail,

Yet Joan as stoutly quaff’d!
And ever, when she feiz'd her ale,

She clear'd it at a draught.
John star'd, with wonder petrify'd,

His hairs rose on his pate;
And “why doft guzzle now” he cry'd,

" At this enorinous rate?"
O JOHN !' said she, am I to blame?

• I can't in conscience ftop: • For sure 'twould be a burning Thaine

• To leave the devil a drop!'

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EPITAPH ON MISS CAMPBELL. O PENSIVE passenger! do not refuse

To pause awhile, and weep upon this tomb, For here the cold remains of CAMPBELL lie,

This narrow spot, the vernal maiden's doom. Yes! Me was gentle as the twilight breeze,

Which o'er the fainting violet's bosom blows; Patient the bow'd beneath the stroke of death,

In faded lemblance of the filver rose.
And oft low bending o’er this hallow'd tomb,

Shall the pure angel INNOCENCE appear;
And FRIENDSHIP, like an hermit, thall be found

To bathe the circling fod with many a tear.

THE THREE SISTERS. ERE SATURN's fons were yet disgrac’d,

And heathen gods were all the taste, Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will To take an air on ida's hill. It chanc'd, as once with serious ken He view'd from thence the ways of men, He saw (and pity touch'd his breaft) The world by three foul fiends posseft: Pale discord there, and FOLLY vain, With haggard vice, upheld their reign. Then forth he sent his summons high, And call’d a fenate of the sky. Round as the winged orders prest, Jove thus his sacred mind exprest: “ Say! which of all this shining train " Will virtue's conflict hard sustain ? “ For fee! The drooping takes her flight, “ While not a god supports her right. He paus’d—when from amidst the sky, WIT, INNOCENCE, and HARMONY, With one united zeal arose, The tripple tyrants to oppose. That instant from the realms of day, With gen’rous speed, they took their way; TO BRITAIN's ille direct their car, And enter'd with the ev’ning fiar.

Belide the road a manfion stood, Defended by a circling wood: Hither, dilguis'd, their lieps they bend, In hopes, perchance, to find a friend : Nor vain their hope, for records say, Worth ne'er froin thence was turn’d away. They urge the trav’ller's common chance, And ev'ry pit’ous plea advance: The artful tale that wit had feign'd, Admittance, easy, foon obtain'd.

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