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Sister of Youth and laughing Joy,

Sweet Pleasure, sorrow-soothing queen, Daughter of Venus, ever-young,

And Bacchus wreath'd with ivy green; Whom on their laps the rosy-bosom'd Hours, And all the Graces nurst beneath Idalian bowers.

O lead me to thy blissful vale !

Where Hope and Health in sprightly round, Leisure, with Freedom hand in hand,

In dance fantastic beat the ground ; Where'er they tread the fairest flowers arise, Embroidering all the green with ever-varying dies.

Let the stern pedant love to waste

In studious search the tedious night, Attentive to the learned page,

By musing taper's glimmering light,


Whose pensive ear no wakeful sounds alarm,
Save the lone owl, slow clock, or bellman's drowsy


Me let the cheerful dance engage,

Swift urg'd along the lighted dome; While with new warmth the virgin glows,

Her cheek all flush'd with fresher bloom: Motion and music tenderest thoughts inspire, And all her yielding soul relents to soft desire.

Let the sage Hermit shun mankind,

With pale-eyed Penitence to dwell, To freeze at midnight hours of prayer

Within a solitary cell; Penurious on the verdant herb to sup, And of the chilling stream to drain his beechen cup.


Be mine, amidst the social band,

The raptures of champaign to taste, Whose vigorous juice new relish gives

To mutual converse, Reason's feast; While old Anacreon seems to‘rise, and say,

Begone, ye toils of life, ye busy cares, away !"





Hie thee hence! thou spectre foul,

Fiend of misery extreme;

Hence! nor o'er yon dwelling scowl With blasting eye, while to thy haggard scream The midnight wolf accords his famish'd howl, And madd’ning wretches loud in agony blaspheme.

Hence!—from the artless bard keep wide aloof,

Fly rather to his hated roof,
Who, deaf to Mercy's soft controul,

Can steel with rugged edge the soul : Plund'ring, unmov’d the orphan's cry can hear, Or from the widow'd lip the scanty morsel tear :But

pass him by, the wooer mild Of Genius, friend to all, Nature's ingenuous child.

Constant toil, and coarsest fare,
Long indeed the village hind

In silent apathy may bear,
While o'er his brow Health’s rosy wreath is twind :
While his passions sluggish flow,
Borne on life's pacific round;

Nor aims his highest wish to know
Beyond the hamlet's pale, his grandsire's farthest


Yet, rous'd to feeling, much he mourns his lot,

When the pale visage of Disease Frowns on his humble cot, When sinks his drooping front, and bend his feeble


There, oft, unheeded on the ground,

May Sickness, Age, and Want be found,
United all in one forlorn abode,
Of grief each singly own'd a melancholy load.


From the damp and earthy bed
The sufferer lifts his aching sight in vain :-

Despair hangs weeping o'er his head :
Sad pallet this for ease ! sad comforter in pain I

Fly, ye rich, unbidden Ay,
Pour your oil, and pour your wine:

Wipe from tears the misty eye;
Charity's a ray divine-
A raythat lights the soul with brightest beam to shine.

Why withhold the little boon?

Seems it much, ye sons of wealth,

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