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'Twas Patience !-Heaven descended maid !
And lent her fostering breast;
And sooth'd my soul to rest.
Say, when dissever'd from his side,
When my prophetic soul,
What could my fears control ?
'Twas Patience-gentle goddess, hear!
Nor let one murmur rise ;
The sweet domestic ties. Frances Sheridan.
Receive my temperate vow:
And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in simplest vest array'd,
To bless my longing sight;
And chaste subdued delight.
prime and e lity of the up what sof . Dar choy
Wil court the
No more by varying passions beat,
To find thy hermit cell;
The modest virtues dwell.
And clear undaunted eye;
A visit to the sky.
That rarely ebb or flow;
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
With settled smiles to meet :
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
To tell thy tender tale ?
And lily of the vale.
And court thy gentle sway?
And shed thy milder day:.
And every storm is laid ;
Of Heaven-born Chastity the child ;
She bows and smiles, devoid of heart :
Meanwhile that art thy real worth proclaims,
Let Flatt'ry speak the style of courts :
Far from dark Treachery's resorts.
From generous motives bent to please,
Thy manners still are stamp'd with ease,
The rich sometimes may succour want:
For ever to oblige is thine.
To charm the soul, but few incline.
TO INNOCENCE. 'Twas when the slow declining ray
Had ting'd the cloud with evening gold, No warbler pour'd the melting lay,
No sound disturb'd the sleeping fold. · When, by a murmuring rill reclin’d,
Sat, wrapt in thought, a wand'ring swain ; Calm peace compos'd his musing mind,
And thus he rais'd the flowing strain.
Hail Innocence! celestial maid !
What joys thy blushing charms reveal!
And milder than the vernal gale.
Soft smiling Peace, and downy Rest,
And Hope, that soothes the throbbing breast.
Nor anguish chills the living bloom.
Sits on yon moss-grown hill reclin'd;
And pure as Delia's gentle mind.
May still my ruder thoughts control,
Thy voice to soothe the melting soul. Far in the shady, sweet retreat,
Let Thought beguile the ling’ring hour; Let Quiet court the mossy seat,
And twining olives form the bower. 'Let dove-eyed Peace her wreath bestow,
And oft sit list'ning in the dale, While Night's sweet warbler from the bough
Tells to the grove his plaintive tale.