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BY JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D.
WHEN in the crimson cloud of Even
Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd
What time the wan moon's yellow horn
To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,
Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,
How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair!
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove
And bless his hours, and bid them move
Oft let remembrance sooth his mind
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 !-
Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,
O while to thee the woodland pours
And balmy from the bank of flowers
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car,
But if some pilgrim through the glade
For he of joys divine shall tell
That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell
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
For present pleasure soon is o'er,
BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.
MILDLY beam'd the queen of night,
But faintly shone the solitary scene,
With deep'ning shadows mixt, and glitt'ring breaks
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