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Here let me through the vales pursue
A guide—a father—and a friend,

Once more great Nature's works renew,
Once more on Wisdom's voice attend.

From false caresses, causeless strife,
Wild hope, vain fear, alike remov’d;

Here let me learn the use of life,
When best enjoy’d—when most improv’d.

Teach me, thou venerable bower,
Cool Meditation's quiet seat,

The generous scorn of venal power,
The silent grandeur of retreat.

When pride by guilt to greatness climbs,
Or raging factions rush to war,

Here let me learn to shun the crimes
I can't prevent and will not share.

But lest I fall by subtler foes,
Bright Wisdom | teach me Curio's art,

The swelling passions to compose,
And quell the rebels of the heart,

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THE MIDSUMMER'S WISH. AN ODE.

BY the same.

O Phoebus' down the western sky,
Far hence diffuse thy burning ray,

Thy light to distant worlds supply,
And wake them to the cares of day.

Come, gentle Eve, the friend of Care,
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night;

Refresh me with a cooling breeze,
And cheer me with a lambent light.

Lay me where o'er the verdant ground
Her living carpet Nature spreads;

Where the green bower, with roses crown'd,
In showers its fragrant foliage sheds.

Improve the peaceful hour with wine,
Let music die along the grove;

Around the bowl let myrtles twine,
And every strain be tun'd to love.

Come, Stella, queen of all my heart!
Come, born to fill its vast desires!

Thy looks perpetual joys impart,
Thy voice perpetual love inspires.

Whilst all my wish and thine complete,
By turns we languish and we burn,

Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,
Our murmurs—murmuring brooks return.

Let me, when Nature calls to rest,
And blushing skies the morn foretel,

Sink on the down of Stella's breast,
And bid the waking world farewel.

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Alas! with swift and silent pace
Impatient Time rolls on the year;

The seasons change, and Nature's face
Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe.
'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay,
Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow;

The flowers of Spring are swept away,
And Summer fruits desert the bough.

The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze,

Now trod in dust neglected lie,
As Boreas strips the bending trees.

The fields that wav'd with golden grain,
As russet heaths, are wild and bare;

Not moist with dew, but drench'd in rain,
Nor Health, nor Pleasure wanders there.

No more while through the midnight shade,
Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray,

Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.

From this capricious clime she soars,
O! would some god but wings supply,

To where each morn the Spring restores,
Companion of her flight I'd fly.

Wain wish! me fate compels to bear
The downward season's iron reign,

Compels to breathe polluted air,
And shiver on a blasted plain.

What bliss to life can Autumn yield, If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail; And Ceres flies the naked field, And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail?

Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,
To cheer me in the darkening hour?

The grape remains! the friend of wit,
In love and mirth of mighty power.

Haste—press the clusters, fill the bowl;
Apollo! shoot thy parting ray:

This gives the sunshine of the soul,
This god of health, and verse, and day.

Still—still the jocund strain shall flow,
The pulse with vigorous rapture beat;

My Stella with new charms shall glow,
And every bliss in wine shall meet.

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