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In a garden live like me,
If thou lovest simplicity.

Flowers have sprung for many a year,

O'er the village maiden's grave,

That, one memorial-spring to save,
Bore it from a sister's bier;

And homeward walking, wept o'er me
The true tears of simplicity.

And soon, her cottage-window near,

With care my slender stem she placed,

And fondly thus her grief enıbraced,
And cherishi'd sad remembrance dear;

For love sincere and friendship freo,
Are children of simplicity.

When past was many a painful day,

Slow-pacing o'er the village-green

In white were all its maidens seen, And love

my guardian friend away. Oh, death! what sacrifice to thee The ruins of simplicity.

One generous swain her heart approved,

A youth, whose fond and faithful breast,

With many an artless sigh confest,
In nature's language that he loved :

But stranger, 'tis no tale for thee,
Unless thou lovest simplicity.

He died-and soon her lip was cold,

And soon her ro‘y lip was pale,

The village wept to hear the tale
When tor both the slow bell toll'd-

Beneath yon flowery turf they lie,
The lovers of simplicity.

Yet one boon have I to crave;

Stranger, it' thy pity bleed,

Wilt thou do one lender deed,
And strew my pale flowers o'er their grave!

So lightly lie the turf on thee.
Because thou lovest simplicity.


The blind Bard of Magilligan, in Ireland, who

died at the advanced age of 110.

The fame of the brave shall no longer be sounded, The last of our bards now sleeps cold in his

grare; Magilligan rocks; where his lays have resounded,

Frown dark at the ocean, and spurn at the wave. For Hampson no more shall thy soul-touching finger

Steal sweet o'er the strings, and wild melody pour; No more near thy hut shall the villagers linger, While strains from thy harp warble soft round

the shore.

No more thy harp swells with enraptured emotion,

Thy wild gleams of fancy for ever are fied, No longer thy minstrelsy charms the rude ocean, That rolls near the green turf that pillows thy


Yet vigour and youth with bright visions had fired

thee, And rose-buds of health have blown deep on

thy cheek; The songs of the sweet bards of Erin inspired thee,

And urged thee to wander like laurels to seek.

Yes, oft has thou sung of our kings crown'd with

glory, Or sighing repeated the lover's fund lay, And oft hast thou sung of the bards famed in story,

Whose wild nutes of rapture have long past away.

Thy grave sha.l be screen'd from the blast and

the billow, Around it a fence shall posterity raise; Erin's children shall wet with their tears thy cold

pillow. Her youths shall lament thee, and carolthy praise.


All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; That chang’d thro' all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th’ætherial frame, Warns in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads individed, operates unspent, Breathes in our soul, iníorms our mortal part, As fuil, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns; To lim, no bigti, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy owo point: this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, heav'n bestuws on thee. Submit in this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Sate in the hand of one disposing power, Or in the nalai, on the mortal hour. All Nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;

All discord, harmony, not understood;
All partial evil, universal good;
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, whaiever is, is right.


O Happiness ! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate’erthy name: That something, which still prompts th' eternal,

sigh; For which be bear to live, nor fear to die: Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies; O’erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise. Plant of celestial seed! if dropt below, Say in what mortal soil thou deign’st to grow? Fair opening to some court's propitious shrine? Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield ? Or reapt in iron harvests of the field ?

Ask of the learn’d the way, the learn'd are

blind : This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind. Some place the bliss in action, some in ease; Those call it pleasure, and contentment these :

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