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Where the light wings of zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in their bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man is divine-?
'Tis the clime of the East-'tis the land of the Sun-
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have
done?

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

GREECE. (Compared)

He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And,

but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now.
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality,
And curdles to the gazer's heart,

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;

BYRON.

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore ;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Her's is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth.

HAMLET. (Churchyard of the)

BYRON.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

HAPPINESS. (A sad sight)

How sad a sight is human happiness

GRAY.

To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour! O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults!

Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate?

I know thou wouldst; thy pride demands it from

me;

Let thy pride pardon what thy nature needs,

The salutary censure of a friend :

Thou happy wretch: by blindness art thou blest; By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles.

HAPPINESS. (Domestic)

YOUNG.

Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise, that hast surviv'd the fall!
Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or tasting long enjoy thee! too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup;
Thou art the nurse of virtue, in thine arms
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heav'n-born, and destin❜d to the skies again.
Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador'd,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support;

For thou art meek and constant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tried love
Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.
Forsaking thee what shipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown!

HAPPINESS.

COWPER.

Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life, He pitied man: and much he pitied those Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means To dissipate their days in quest of joy.

Our aim is happiness: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,

E

He said; 'tis the pursuit of all that live:
Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd.
But they the widest wander from the mark,
Who through the flow'ry paths of saunt'ring joy
Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage
Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.

For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings
To counterpoise itself, relentless fate

Forbids that we through gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam; and were the fates more kind,
Our narrow luxuries would soon be stale.
Were these exhaustless, Nature would grow sick;
And cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature rest: be busy for yourself,
And for your friend; be busy ev'n in vain,
Rather than tease her sated appetites.
Who never fasts, no banquets e'er enjoys;
Who never toils or watches, never sleeps.

ARMSTRONG.

HARVEST. (Gathered in)

How clear the cloudless sky! how deeply ting'd With a peculiar blue! th' ethereal arch

How swell'd immense! amid whose azure thron'd
The radiant sun how gay! how calm below
The gilded earth! the harvest treasures all
Now gather'd in, beyond the rage of storms,
Sure to the swain; the circling fence shut up;
And instant Winter's utmost rage defied.
While, loose to festive joy, the country round
Laughs with the loud sincerity of mirth,
Shook to the wind their cares. The toil-strung
youth,

By the quick sense of music taught alone,
Leaps wildly graceful in the lively dance.
Her every charm abroad, the village-toast,

Young, buxom, warm, in native beauty rich,
Darts not unmeaning looks; and, where her eye
Points an approving smile, with double force
The cudgel rattles and the wrestler twines.
Age too shines out; and, garrulous, recounts
The feats of youth. Thus they rejoice; nor think
That, with to-morrow's sun, their annual toil
Begins again the never-ceasing round.

HEARSE.

THOMSON.

But see! the well-plum'd hearse comes nodding on,

Stately and slow; and properly attended
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch
The sick man's door, and live upon the dead,
By letting out their persons by the hour
To mimic sorrow when the heart's not sad!
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd
And glittring in the sun! triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,
In glory scarce exceed.

Ye undertakers! tell us,

'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principal conceal'd, for which
You make this mighty stir? 'Tis wisely done:
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The painter casts discreetly into shades.

HELL. (Satan's Address to)

Farewell, happy fields,

BLAIR.

Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors, hail,
Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell,
Receive thy new possessor; one who brings
A mind not to be chang'd by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself

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