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ODE VII.

RETIREMENT.

BY JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D.

When in the crimson cloud of Even

The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,

Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive Youth of placid mien,

Indulged this tender theme.

Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd

High o'er the glimmering dale; Ye woods, along whose windings wild

Murmurs the solemn gale ; Where Melancholy strays forlorn,

And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn

Gleams on the western deep :

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequester'd bower

Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,

Leans on her ivy'd shrine.

How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair!

Thy heavenly smile how win!
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care

And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move

Serene, on silent wing!

Oft let remembrance sooth his mind

With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclin'd

He fram’d his infant lays ;
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarm’d,
Nor Envy with malignant glare

His simple youth had harm’d.

'Twas then, O Solitude, to thee

His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,

Devoted to the shade.
Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy

In stormy paths to roam,

Remote from all congenial joy !

O take the wanderer home.

Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,

Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine

Waves o'er the gloomy stream, Whence the scar'd owl on pinions grey

Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away

To more profound repose.

O while to thee the woodland pours

Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy from the bank of Aowers

The zephyr breathes along;
Let no rude sound invade from far,

No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car,

Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim through the glade

Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,

And listen to his lore;
For he of joys divine shall tell

That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell

That chains this heart below.

For me, no more the path invites

Ambition loves to tread ; No more I climb those toilsome heights

By guileful Hope misled; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more

To Mirth's enlivening strain; For present pleasure soon is o'er,

And all the past is vain.

ODE VIII.

THE

HERMIT'S VISION.

BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.

Mildly beam'd the queen of night,

Sailing thro' the grey serene :
Silver'd by her modest light,

But faintly shone the solitary scene,
With deep’ning shadows mixt, and glitt'ring breaks

between.

High on a cliffy steep, o'erspread

With many an oak, whose ancient head

Did in its neighbour's top itself inwreath, And cast an umbered gloom and solemn awe beneath.

High on a cliffy steep a Hermit sat,

Weighing in his weaned mind
The various turns of mortal fate,

The various woes of human kind;
Meek Pity's pearl oft started in his eye,
And many a pray'r he pour’d, and heav'd a frequent

sigh.

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