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Oh think, o'er all this mortal stage,
What mournful scenes arise :
What ruin waits on kingly rage:
How often virtue dwells with woe:
How many griefs from knowledge flow:
How swiftly pleasure flies.
XIII. O sacred bird, let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone, Thy tender counsel oft receive, Bear witness to thy pensive airs, And pity nature's common cares
Till i forget my own.
Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies
Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove
Of branching oaks a rural palace old
Imbosoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord
Of all the harvest round. and onward thence 5
A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
Fast by a silent riv'let. Humbly walk,
O, stranger, o'er the confecrated ground;
And on that verdant hilloc, which thou see'ft
Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand
Sprinkle fresh water from the brook and strew
Sweet-smelling flowers. for there doth Edmund rest,
The learned fhepherd; for each rural art
Fam'd, and for songs harmonious, and the woes
Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride 15
Of fair Matilda fank him to the grave
Inmanhood's prime. But faon did righteous heaven
With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care,
Avenge her falfhood.
nor could all the gold
And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith 20
From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,
Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside
The strokes of death. Go, traveller; relate
The mournful story. haply some fair maid
May hold it in remembrance, and be taught 25
Thaç riches cannot pay for trụth or love.
Me tho' in life's fequefter'd vale
The Almighty fire ordain’d to dwell,
Remote from glory's toilsome ways,
And the great scenes of public praise;
Yet let me still with grateful pride
infant frame He temper'd with prophetic flame, And early music to my tongue fupply'd.
'Twas then my future fate he weigh'd,
And, This be thy concern, he said,
At once with Passion's keen alarms,
And Beauty's pleasurable charms,
And sacred Truth's eternal light,
To move the various mind of Man;
Till under one unblemish'd plan,
His Reason, Fancy, and his Heart unite.
Hail, eldest of the monthly train,
Sire of the winter drear,
December, in whose iron reign
Expires the chequer'd Year.
Hush all the bluft'ring blasts that blow,
And proudly plum'd in silver snow,
Smile gladly on this blest of Days.
The livery'd clouds shall on thee wait,
And Phoebus shine in all his state
With more than summer
Tho' jocund June may juftly boast
Long days and happy hours,
Tho' August be Pomona's host,
And May be crown'd with flow'rs;
Tell June, his fire and crimson dies,
By Harriot's blush, and Harriot's eyes,
Eclips'd and vanquish'd, fade away :
Tell August, thou canst let him see
A richer, riper fruit than he,
A sweeter flow'r than May.