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THE BLIND BOY.
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
O, tell your poor blind boy!
You say the sun shines bright;
Or make it day or night?
Whene'er I Neep or play;
With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
A lofs I ne'er can know.
My cheer of mind destroy ;
Although a poor blind boy:
INSCRIBED ON A ROSEMARY TREE,
PLANTED IN A COTTAGE GARDEN. O Thou! whom love and fancy lead
To wander near this woodland hill,
If ever music smooth’d thy quill, Or Pity wak'd thy gentle reed,
Repose beneath my humble tree,
If thou lov'st SIMPLICITY, Stranger! if thy lot has laid
In toilfome scenes of busy life,
Full forelv may'st thou rue the firife
In a GARDEN live with me,
Flow'rs have sprung for many a year
O’er the viilage-maiden's grave,
That, one memorial-sprig to fave,. 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 fender stem the plac'd;
And fondly thus her grief embrac'd, And cherish'd sad remembrance dear:
For Love fincere, and FRIENDSHIP free,
Are children of SIMPLICITY. When past was many a painful day,
Slow-pacing o'er the village-green,
In white were all its maidens leen, And bore my guardian friend away.
Ah, DeATH! what sacrifice to thee,
The ruins of SIMPLICITY!
A youth whose fond and faithful breast
With many an artless figh confeft, In NATURE's language, that he lov’d.
But stranger ! 'tis no tale to thee,
Unless thou lov'st sựMPLICITY. He died-and foon her lip was cold,
And soon her rosy cheek was pale ;
The village wept to hear the tale, When for both, the flow bell toll’d.
Beneath yon flow'ry turf they lie,
"The lovers of SIMPLICITY. Yet one boon I have to crave;
Stranger! if thy Pity bleed,
Wilt thou do one tender deed,
So lightly lie the turf on thee,
THE RURAL RETREAT. MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall footh my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall ling’r near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft thall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest, Around my ivied porch shall spring, Each fragrant flow'r that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall fing, In ruflet-gown and apron blue. The village-church, among the trees, Where firit our marriage-vows were giv'n, With merry-peals thall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n.
Alas! how quickly done!
hard to run ! Youth stops at first its wilful ears
To wisdom's prudent voice;
Repents its earlier choice.
So pleasing and refin’d,
And prey upon the mind.
With hopes of real bliss;
Is all compriz'd in this :
May I, through life's uncertain tide,
Bé fiill from pain exempt ; May all my wants be tiill fupply'd, My ftate too low t’admit of Pride,
And yet above CONTEMPT! But ihould your providence divine,
A greater blits intend; May all those blessings you design (If e'er those blellings ihall be mine)
Be center'd in a FRIEND.
ON A PROSPECT OF EATON-COLLEGE. YE distant fpires, ye antique tow’rs,
That crown the wat’ry glade ;
Her HENRY's holy shade;
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
His filver-winding way!
Ah, fields belov’d in vain!
A firanger yet to pain !
As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
To breathe a fecond SPRING.
Full many a sprightly race,
The paths of pleature trace) Who, foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arms, thy glafiy ware?
The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny
fucceed To chase the rolling circle's speed,
urge the flying ball ? While, some on earnest bus’ness bent,
Their murm’ring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To Tweeten LIBERTY; Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,
And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Lefs pleasing when poitest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The fun-fhine of the breast: Theirs buxom HEALTH, of rosy hue, Wild wIT, INVENTION ever new,
And lively CHEER, of viGOUR born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the Numbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.
The little victims play!
Nor care beyond to-day:
And black MISFORTUNE's baleful train
Ah, tell them they are MEN !
The vultures of the mind,