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Not so the nights that in thy halls,

Once, Rosline, danc'd in joy along : Where owls now scream along thy walls,

Resounded mirth-inspiring fong..

Where bats now reft their footy wings,

Th’impurpl'd feast was wont to flow; And beauty danc'd in graceful rings,

And princes fat, where nettles grow.

What now avails, how great? how gay?

How fair, how fine, their matchless dames ? Here sleeps their undistinguish'd clay;

And e'en the stones have lost their names.

And yon gay crouds must soon expire,

Unknown, unprais’d, each fair-one's name! Not so the charms that bards inspire;

Increasing years increase their fame.

Oh, Mira! what is state or wealth ?

The great can never love like me! Wealth adds not days, nor quickens health,

Then, wiser thou, come happy be!

Come, and be mine! in this sweet spot,

Where Elk rolls clear his little wave, We'll live, and Ek shall, in a cot,

See joys that Rolline never gave.

HIGHAM

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N Higham Hill, when prospects fair

Salute the wand'ring fight,
I love to breathe the morning air,

And sleep the summer night:
There, how charming 'tis to wake

When filver Cynthia reigns ! Whilft Philomel, from fiow'ry brake,

Pours forth her love-lořn trains.

Then, oh! then, I love to rise,

And trace the broom-clad hill; Whilst thro' the stillness softly flies

The whispers of the rill;
Nor else is heard to interpose,

From dingle, buth, or dale,
Save Thames, soft kiffing, as he goes,

The ruth-embroider'd vale.

As down the slope I traverse then,

I scan with curious eye
The wonders Heav'n presents to men;

And with the atheist by :
His mind, howe'er impervious grown

To theologick lore,
With me, I think, would quickly own

A supernatural Pow'r!

When business dulls the mental pow'rs,

To Higham Hill I run,
And with the breath of op'ning flow'rs

There hail the rising sun.

Then

Then how my soul revives again!

My fancy takes her fight; The muse resumes her wonted strain,

And fings with new delight!

Let the proud thing of human race,

Who, like a summer fly,
Scuds to-day from place to place,

And must to-morrow die;
Let him to greatness bend the knee,

Or heap up fordid wealth;
The top of Higham Hill for me,

That seat of Peace and Health!

Peace and Health! O, facred theme,

With all that’s blissful fraught! The rest is but an empty dream,

Not worth a poet's thought : May he, who strives for more than this,

Still turn a barren soil, Nor ever meet a ray of bliss

To mitigate his toil !

Bear me from hence, fome rural god,

To Higham Hill again;
The choicest bloom that decks the fod

I'll scatter round thy fane :
For, O! I long, at fervid noon,

To breathe the blue-bell's sweet;
To sit and hear the throftle's tune,

Where spreading hazels meet;

Or stray by hawthorn hedge, or rove

Adown the pathlefs way,
When ev'ry song-bird chears his love

Beneath the bloom of May ;

Till weary herds retire to reft,

Till sheep are pent in fold,
Till Phæbus leaves the ruddy west

With tints of burnish'd gold!

If, when I ftray to Higham Hill,

I meet the rustick throng,
They greet me with a right good will,

And note me for my song:
For oft at May, in rural sport,

I spend with them the day, And make the vices of a court

The burden of my lay.

And oft I've fang the tender ftrain,

The while the village maid
Was leaning on her fav'rite swain,

And all her heart betray'd.
The lofty theme I ne'er essay'd,

(Let Laureats such rehearse !) But wheresoe'er my fancy Atray'd, A moral mark'd my

verse.

Their loves to me the fhepherds tell,

What fwains have faithless prov’d;
What maids for beauty bear the belle,

And who are least belov'd:
The virgins come in modest guise,

I love their plaints to hear ;
'Tis joy to soothe their artless fighs,

And stop the starting tear.

No thorns obstruct their path of life,

With health their farms abound; And, foes to law and lawless ftrife,

They live the zodiack round.

To

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'TWA

WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike fon;

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero fate

On his imperial throne :
His valiant peers were plac'd around,
Their þrows with roses and with myrtles bound;

(So should desert in arms be crown'd.)
The lovely Thaïs by his fide,
Sat like a blooming Eastern bride,
În fow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair !

None but the brave,

None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, plac'd on Irigh,

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre ; The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire.

3 L

The

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