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Honest mirth, sweet melancholy,
Pilgrims at his shrine appear,
And pity drops her holiest tear!

There no mortal steps intrude,
Sacred is the solitude!

Naught impure can entrance find,
All reflects his heavenly mind!
Oft on summer nights serene
Is his gentle Spirit seen
Hovering round the fairy dell
Where his fancy loved to dwell!

Haste, and on his altar now

Cast thy wreath, then pay thy vow.

Breezy mountains, crystal fountains,
And of paradise the flowers,
Frolic fancies, songs and dances,
In this fairy land are ours!

Spirits brighter, footsteps lighter,
Tresses of more sparkling gold,
Livelier graces, lovelier faces,
Never yet did eyes behold!

his dirge of "O sing unto my roundelay;" Gray, in the omitted stanza of his Elegy, and Collins, in the dirge sung over the grave of Fidele, also allude to this heavenly prac. tice.

Not thy own celestial sphere

Breathes sweeter music-Hark! I hear
My tuneful Summons to appear!

While beneath the moon's expanse
Nature sinks in solemn trance,
And the chantress of the night
Fills the groves with sad delight!
While blest spirits from above?
Guard from peril those they love,
Whether on the land or deep
They in darkness watch or sleep,
We, upon the wings of wind,
Leave this weary world behind.

[Exeunt.

7 Plutarch (in enthusiasm a Platonist and in benevolence a Pythagorean!) believed that the genius of Socrates still warned him of approaching danger, and taught him to avoid it.

8 ""Tis an excellent world that we live in, To lend, and to spend, or to give in;

But to borrow or beg, or get a man's own,

"Tis the very worst world that ever was known."

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THE STRANGER-GUEST.

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