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CLASS THE FIRST
Sister of Youth and laughing Joy,
Sweet Pleasure, sorrow-soothing queen, Daughter of Venus, ever-young,
And Bacchus wreath'd with ivy green; Whom on their laps the rosy-bosom'd Hours, And all the Graces nurst beneath Idalian bowers.
O lead me to thy blissful vale !
Where Hope and Health in sprightly round, Leisure, with Freedom hand in hand,
In dance fantastic beat the ground ; Where'er they tread the fairest flowers arise, Embroidering all the green with ever-varying dies.
Let the stern pedant love to waste
In studious search the tedious night, Attentive to the learned page,
By musing taper's glimmering light,
Whose pensive ear no wakeful sounds alarm,
Me let the cheerful dance engage,
Swift urg'd along the lighted dome; While with new warmth the virgin glows,
Her cheek all flush'd with fresher bloom: Motion and music tenderest thoughts inspire, And all her yielding soul relents to soft desire.
Let the sage Hermit shun mankind,
With pale-eyed Penitence to dwell, To freeze at midnight hours of prayer
Within a solitary cell; Penurious on the verdant herb to sup, And of the chilling stream to drain his beechen cup.
Be mine, amidst the social band,
The raptures of champaign to taste, Whose vigorous juice new relish gives
To mutual converse, Reason's feast; While old Anacreon seems to‘rise, and say,
Begone, ye toils of life, ye busy cares, away !"
BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.
Hie thee hence! thou spectre foul,
Fiend of misery extreme;
Hence! nor o'er yon dwelling scowl With blasting eye, while to thy haggard scream The midnight wolf accords his famish'd howl, And madd’ning wretches loud in agony blaspheme.
Hence!—from the artless bard keep wide aloof,
Fly rather to his hated roof,
Can steel with rugged edge the soul : Plund'ring, unmov’d the orphan's cry can hear, Or from the widow'd lip the scanty morsel tear :But
pass him by, the wooer mild Of Genius, friend to all, Nature's ingenuous child.
Constant toil, and coarsest fare,
In silent apathy may bear,
Nor aims his highest wish to know
Yet, rous'd to feeling, much he mourns his lot,
When the pale visage of Disease Frowns on his humble cot, When sinks his drooping front, and bend his feeble
There, oft, unheeded on the ground,
May Sickness, Age, and Want be found,
From the damp and earthy bed
Despair hangs weeping o'er his head :
Fly, ye rich, unbidden Ay,
Wipe from tears the misty eye;
Why withhold the little boon?
Seems it much, ye sons of wealth,