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TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
And left the bark, and bless'd the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.
But me thy gentle hand will lead
At morning through the' accustom'd mead;
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, [moon. Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding
The feeling heart, the searching soul,
The present works of present manA wild and dreamlike trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!
FAINT gleams the evening radiance through the sky,
The sober twilight dimly darkens round; In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,
And the slow vapour curls along the ground. Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing The redbreast on the blossom'd spray Warbles wild her latest lay,
And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.
Meek Power! I view thee on the calmy shore
And whiten o'er his breast;
For lo! the moon with softer radiance gleams, And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.
When the low gales of evening moan along,
Listening the mellow murmur of the trees
Or lead me where, amid the tranquil vale,
O'er the bank of violets sighs,
Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise;
Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail,
Thee, meekest Power! I love to meet,
The scatter'd Abbey's hallow'd rounds I trace, And listen to the echoings of my feet.
Or on the half demolish'd tomb,
Whose warning texts anticipate my doom,
Cast through the storying glass a faintly varied
Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour
When the blast moans along the darksome aisle,
And clattering patters all around
The midnight shower with dreary sound.
But sweeter 'tis to wander wild
O Contemplation! when to Memory's eyes
THE REV. JOHN IRELAND.
IMITATION OF HORACE, LIB. III. ODE XVI.
WHEN howling winds and louring skies The light untimber'd bark surprise
Near Orkney's boisterous seas,
For ease the Turk, ferocious, prays, For ease the barbarous Russ, for ease Which Palk could ne'er obtain; Which Bedford lack'd amidst his store, And liberal Clive, with mines of ore, Oft bade for-but in vain.
For not the liveried troop that wait
Can keep, my friend, aloof
'O, well is he' to whom kind Heaven