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His dwelling is a straw-built shed,
Safe from the sun's too curious eye,
A yew-tree rears its blighted head,

And frogs and rooks are croaking nigh: Through many a chink the hollow murm’ring breeze Sounds like the distant hum of swarming bees.

And more to feed his slumbers soft,
And lull him in his senseless swoon,
The hard rain beats upon the loft,

And swiftly-trickling tumbles down:
All livelier, ruder sounds are banish'd far,
The lute's shrill voice, and brazen throat of war.

Hence let me woo thee, God of ease,
Ah, leave thy fav’rite haunt awhile,
And bid the midnight hours to please,

And bid the midnight gloom to smile!
Oh come, and o'er my weary limbs diffuse
The slumb'rous weight of sweet oblivious dews!

Bring to thy soft enchanting dreams,
Such as enamour'd Petrarch knew,
When, stretch'd by Sorgia's gentle streams,

Fair Laura's form his fancy drew :
Oh! see he wooes the soul-dissolving maid,
And grasps with eager arms the visionary shade.

At morn he sung the tender tale,
He sung his Laura's matchless charms,

And every tree in Clausa's vale

Attentive breath'd Love's soft alarms; Ev'n hoary monks full many a careless bead Have dropt, and left their Aves half unsaid. ODE XLV.

TO

SOLITUDE.

BY JOSEPH WARTON, D. D.

Thou, that at deep dead of night
Walk'st forth beneath the pale moon's light,
In robe of flowing black array'd,
While cypress-leaves thy brows o'ershade ;
Listening to the crowing cock,
And the distant sounding clock;
Or sitting in thy cavern low,
Dost hear the bleak winds loudly blow,
Or the hoarse death-boding owl,
Or village mastiff's wakeful howl,
While through thy melancholy room
A dim lamp casts an awful gloom :
Thou, that on the meadow green,
Or daisy'd upland, art not seen,
But wandering by the dusky nooks,
And the pensive-falling brooks,
Or near some rugged, herbless rock,
Where no shepherd keeps his flock !
Musing Maid, to thee I come,
Hating the tradeful city's hum:

O let me calmly dwell with thee, From noisy mirth and business free; With Meditation seek the skies, This folly-fetter'd world despise !

ODE XLVI.

TO

SOLITUDE.

BY JAMES GRAINGER, M. D.

O SOLITUDE! romantic maid,
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert’s trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or at the purple dawn of day,
Tadmor's marble wastes survey ;

You, Recluse, again I woo,
And again your steps pursue.

Plum'd Conceit himself surveying, Folly with her shadow playing, Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, Bloated empiric, puff's Pretence, Noise that through a trumpet speaks, Laughter in loud peals that breaks,

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