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Where deep morasses faithful smile,

In transient verdure to beguile,

This humble fabric stands.

Oh! scorn it not, because 'tis poor,
Nor turn thee from its sacred door
With contumelious pride;

But entering in, that Power adore!
Who gave thee on a milder shore,
In safety to reside.

Where Zephyr breathes in temper'd gales, Thro' wood-crown'd hills, and gentle vales, And peaceful rivers flow;

And herbs. and fruits, and fragrant flowers, And flocks, and herds, and shady bowers, Their varied gifts bestow.

Let no presumptuous thoughts arise,
That thou art dearer in his eyes,
Than poor Icelandic swain;

Who bravely meets the northern wind,
With brow serene, and soul resign'd
To penury and pain.

Where much is giv'n, more is requir'd;
Where little, less is still desir'd.

Enjoy thy happier lot

With trembling awe and chasten'd fear;
Krisuvick's Church to God is dear,
And will not be forgot.

INGRATITUDE.

BY SHAKSPEARE.

BLOW, blow, thou winter-wind;
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude :

Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky;
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:

Thou, thou the waters warp;
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

TO THE IVY.

BY F. HEMANS.

Oh! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the god of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;
Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwin'd thee, with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;

Yet there, tho' fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave;
Better thou lov'st the silent scene
Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, thro' the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;

Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair;

Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods,

On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes

And cities of the dead.

Deserted palaces of kings,

Arches of triumph long o'erthrown,
And all once-glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath the blue Italian sky,

Hath nought of beauty left by Time,

Save thy wild tapestry :

And, rear'd midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
To wave where banners wav'd of yore;
O'er mould'ring towers, by lovely Rhine,
Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down,
Those eyries of a vanish'd race;
Homes of the mighty, whose renown

Hath pass'd, and left no trace.

But thou art there: thy foliage bright,

Unchang'd, the mountain-storm can brave; Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height, And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round grandeur's marble halls;

The vivid hues, by painting thrown,

Rich o'er the glowing walls;

D

The acanthus, on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptur'd beauty waving fair;
These perish all.—And what remains?
Thou, thou alone, art there!

'Tis still the same: where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see; The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength: Days pass-thou, Ivy, never sere, And all is thine at length!

FRAGMENT.

ANONYMOUS.

How happy could I pass my days
In some sequester'd vale;
Below the reach of Fortune's rays,

And every fickle gale;

For there the storms of life sweep by,

And break on those who live more high.

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