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Would thy fond love his grace to her controul,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure, exalted soul

Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?
No-rather strive thy grov'ling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heav'nly radiance of eternal light,

In which enthron'd she now with pity sees How frail, how insecure, how slight,

Is every mortal bliss;

E'en love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sov'reign good ascend.
Rise then, my soul, with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight,
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate

No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss.
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore,

There yield up all his pow'r ne'er to divide you more.



To the Duchess of Somerset.

WHILE orient skies restore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;
Amid the sprightly scenes of morn,
Will aught the muse inspire!
Oh! peace to yonder clam'rous horn
That drowns the sacred lyre!

Ye rural thanes, that o'er the mossy


Some panting, timorous hare pursue;

Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?
Say, does she smooth her lawns for you?

For you does echo bid the rocks reply,

And urg'd by rude constraint resound the jovial cry?

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched swain your sport survey;

He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;

He sees his flock-no more in circles feed ;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curses loads the deed.

Nor yet, ye swains, conclude

That nature smiles for you


Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude,

The proud, the selfish boast disown:

Yours be the produce of the soil:

O may it still reward your toil!
Nor ever the defenceless train
Of clinging infants, ask support in vain!

But tho' the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye?

Or the warm hope of distant gains
Far other cause of glee supply?
Is not the red-streak's future juice
The source of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true:
But tho', the pebbled shores among,

It mimic no unpleasing song,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleas'd ye see the thickets bloom,

Unpleas'd the Spring her flowery robe resume;
Unmov'd the mountains airy pile,

The dappled mead without a smile.

O let a rural conscious muse,

For well she knows, your froward sense accuse: Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square, And span the massy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor yet ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train,
If haply from your haunts ye stray

To waste with us a summer's day,
Exclude the taste of every swain,
Nor our untutor'd sense disdain:
"Tis nature only gives exclusive right
To relish her supreme delight;

She, where she pleases kind or coy,
Who furnishes the scene, and forms us to enjoy.

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her auspicious aid refin'd;

Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,

Or valley winds, or fountain flows,
Or purple heath is ting'd in vain :

For such the rivers dash the foaming tides,
The mountain swells, the dale subsides;

Ev'n thriftless furze detains their wandering sight, And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.

With what suspicious fearful care

The sordid wretch secures his claim,

If haply some luxurious heir

Should alienate the fields that wear his name!

What scruples lest some future birth

Should litigate a span of earth!

Bonds, contracts, feoffments, names unmeet for prose,

The towering muse endures not to disclose;

Alas! her unrevers'd decree,

More comprehensive and more free,

Her lavish charter, taste, appropriates all we see.

Let gondolas their painted flags unfold,
And be the solemn day enroll'd,

When to confirm his lofty plea,

In nuptial sort, with bridal gold,
grave Venetian weds the sea:
Each laughing muse derides the vow;

Ev'n Adria scorns the mock embrace,

To some lone hermit on the mountain's brow,
Allotted, from his natal hour,

With all her myrtle shores in dow'r.

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