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In Pleasure's ray see Nature shine, How dull, alas ! at Wisdom's shrine !
“'Tis Folly to be wise :" Collusive term, poor vain pretence, Enjoyment sure is real Sense
In philosophic eyes.
I love the carol of the hound,
In dashing ecstasy;
And with him eager fly.
yes, I love, ye sneering wise . Fair Honour, spurning still at lies,
As courting Liberty;
And all those joys are free.
And welcome thrice to British land,
Ye destin'd men of art;
shall still be faithful found, At your admirer's heart.
Avert, ye gods! that curse of fools,
That dupery of sense:
Most easily dispense.
I catch each rapture as it flies,
And boon still follows boon:
Thus thro' my hours I run!
But let me not for idle rhyme
Dear watch I thou art obey'd 'Twas thus the Man of Pleasure spoke, His jovial step then careless took
To Celia-or her maid.
BY JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D.
When in the crimson cloud of Even
The lingering light decays,
His glittering gem displays;
Beside a lulling stream,
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,
To your retreats I fly,
Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Let me at last recline,
Leans on her ivy'd shrine.
How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair!
Thy heavenly smile how win!
And stills the storm within.
Thine ardent votary bring,
Serene, on silent wing!
Oft let remembrance sooth his mind
With dreams of former days,
He fram'd his infant lays;
Nor cold Distrust alarm’d,
His simple youth had harm’d.
'Twas then, O Solitude, to thee
His early vows were paid,
Devoted to the shade.
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,
The zephyr breathes along ;
No vagrant foot be nigh,
Flash on the startled eye.
But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
And listen to his lore;
That wean from earthly woe,
That chains this heart below.