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Where pagan-craft no more o'erwhelms,

Or slaughter'd victims lie.

Long may thou flourish and increase,

Thy fruit, our Lares guard,
And crown’d by friendship, mirth and peace,

Oft cheer some tuneful bard.

Inspire his muse, his fancy warm,

Tho' angry tempests blow;

As old Falernian once could charm,

Amidst Soracte's snow.

The Sabine villa could restore,

With Lydia's graceful form;

While many a tale of ancient lore,

Dispelld the midnight storm.

Thus, long by Heav'n's all gracious power,

Each worldly care forgot;
May all beneath some vine-clad bower,

Enjoy their chequer'd lot.

Enjoy that boon to few denied,

(Tho' arrogance may frown ;) From the poor swain or village bride,

To Albion's splendid crown.

And musing o'er Pompeii's bier,

No fiery torrent nigh;
Let her sad fate to view appear,

And claim a pensive sigh.

SONNET ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

“ Can those gay scenes, her restless thoughts employ ;

Say, do they yield one transient gleam of joy? “ With vacant eye she views the splendid dome, “And sighs, that happiness is not at home.”

Byron.

“One thing must still be mainly dark,

“ The moving why' they do it; “ And still as faintly can ye mark,

“ How bitterly they rue it."

Burns.

When Fortune's car (as all have read,)

Th' aspiring Consul grac'd ; Some hapless slave, in bondage led,

To mark each fault was plac'd.

Who ev'ry failing tried to probe,

And held the mirror nigh ; Unveil'd the conqu’ror's spangled robe,

And drew forth many a sigh.

Thus when the brilliant scenes you view,

Where taste and wealth combine,

Where pleasure can her roses strew,

And rival beauties shine.

Or when fatigued with empty noise,

You seek the rural shade;

Will not remorse for slighted joys,

In gentle tone upbraid ?

Or when at midnight's silent hour,

On downy pillows tost; Will not fond Mem’ry's magic power,

Recall the friends now lost?

Vain Flatt’ry's sycophantic train,

The banquet, or the song ;

No more they prove a balm for pain,

Or “ Auld Lang Syne” prolong.

SONNET ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

137

Still former days of youthful glee,

Must on the bosom dwell;

With sylph-like air, when frank and free,

You sought the flow'ry dell.

Nor can those manners blythe and gay,

Or Fashion's loudest din ;

With colours bright as op’ning day,

Destroy the worm within.

The still, small voice,will ever rise,

(As sacred lore has taught ;) In tropic and in polar skies,

By wealth or fame unbought.

Alike in Senates, as in Courts,

Her whisper will assail ;
In lofty halls, in rustic sports ;

The camp and warrior's mail. .

And when

your

brief career is o'er,

As close, we know it must;

When summer friends” desert your door,

And all is turn'd to dust.

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