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Ny tender wife, sweet soother of my care !
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling’ring fell, a victim to despair!
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, [door, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!

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FROM polish'd circles of the fair, From gilded domes and tainted air, Where Pleasure's toilsome, Silence loud, Retirement but from crowd to crowd; Where Love but drives a trade at best (An Alley-broker He profess’d), Not giving corresponding hearts, But chaffering with his golden darts ; Where innocence the world amazes, Her face scarce known in public places : But choosing still at home to share One corner of St. James's SquareFar hence permit the simple swain To lead thee to the guiltless plain,

Where Phæbe, innocent and gay,
Dares with the dangerous passion play:
And Celia, uninstructed maid,
Stoops her pure cause herself to plead.

Nor scornfully wilt thou disdain The shepherd's pastime, pure though plain. Thou (whose well-cultivated mind, Nor for enjoyment too refin'd, Nor others' woes to feel too wise, Knows all but Nature to despise) Serene shalt teach the madding train, False pleasure is but real pain; Superior to her Siren-song, Prudent thou glid'st the stream along, Not careless of the baits of youth, But steady to the pilot, Truth. With her upon the helm advanc'd, In purer joys thou sitt’st intranc'd, And seest with pity and amaze The voluntary herds, that graze

Th' enchanted shores of Circe's isle,
Transform’d so fuully by her smile.

-

Lady, from all their painted pride,
Come, let the Shepherd be thy guide:
He'll lead thee to the fountain's brink,
Where all the Sylvan Muses drink;
Whose spotless and translucent lace
Heaven reflects with Heaven's own grace,
And pure at once, and yet refin'd,
Presents a mirror to the mind.
He'll lead thee (go with him along)
Where Greene's sweet Muse attunes her song,
And plays her not unusual part,
Mixing simplicity with art.
Thy Genius shall according move,
And, self-approving, her approxe.

ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

BY OGILVIE.

HAIL, queen of thought sublime! propitious
pow'r,
Who o'er th' unbounded waste art joy’d to roam,
Led by the moon, when, at the midnight hour,
Her pale rays tremble through the dusky gloom.

O bear me, Goddess, to thy peaceful seat! Whether to Hecla’s cloud-wrapt brow convey'd, Or lodg’d where mountains screen thy deep retreat, Or wand'ring wild through Chili's boundless

shade.

Say, rove thy steps o'er Libya's naked waste?
Or seek some distant solitary shore?
Or, on the Andes' topmost mountain placid,
Dost sit, and hear the solemn thunder roar ?

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