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And pales his beam as Phæbus' car draws nigh.
Now ere the lawns or distant cribs appear,
Or ere the crows from wattled sheep-cote veer

Their early flight, or wakeful herdsman's eye

Discerns the smoky hamlet, let me ply My daily task, to guide the labouring steer,

Plant the low shrub, remove the unsightly mound,
Or nurse the flower, or tend the humming swarms.

Thus ever with the morn may I be found,
Far from the hunter-band's discordant yell;

So in my breast Content and Health shall dwell,
And conscious Bliss, and love of Nature's charms.


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Slow sinks the glimmering beam from western sky;

The woods and hills, obscured by evening gray,

Vanish from mortal sight, and fade away.
Now with the flocks and yearlings let me hie
To farm, or cottage lone, where, perch'd hard by,

On mossy pale the redbreast tunes his lay,

Soft twittering, and bids farewell to day;
Then, whilst the watchdog barks, and ploughmen lie,



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Lulld by the rocking winds, let me unfold

Whate'er in rhapsody, or strain most holy,
The hoary minstrel sang in times of old ;
For well I ween, from them the Nine inspire
Wisdom shall flow, and virtue's sacred fire,
And Peace, and love, and heavenly Melancholy.


Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain!
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,
And, last of all, thy greedy self consumed,
Then long eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this carthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O Time.


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And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,

Where innocence and peace reside; 'Tis thou that gladd’st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th’exhilarating song.

Moon of harvest, I do love
O’er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

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Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon!
Now the night is at her noon,
’Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tann’d wheat,
Ripen’d by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy
When boundless plenty greets his eye,

And thinking soon,

Oh, modest moon!
How many a female eye will roam .

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