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In weakness safe, the fex I fee
With idle luftre shine ;
Which cannot now be mine?
My troubles laid to rest, And truths which would disturb my peace.
Are painful truths at best.
In fad reflection flies;
Ye sweet deceits! arife.
To things that us'd to please ;
In health, 'tis only ease.
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The flumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire : The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the filent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful fight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass with melancholy state By all the folemn heaps of fate, And think, as softly-fad you tread Above the venerable dead, Time was, like thee, they life poffeft, And time shall be, that thou shalt reft.
Those with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chiffel's slender help to fame (Which ere our set of friends decay Their frequent steps may wear away); A middle race of mortals own, Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
black and funeral yew,
When men my scythe and darts supply,
would ever pass to God :
A port of calms, a state to ease
Why then thy flowing fable stoles,
Nor can the parted body know,
HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.
LOVELY, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind ! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the fayorites of the sky
With more of happiness below,
Ambition searches all its sphere
pomp and state, to meet thee there. Encreasing avarice would find Thy presence in its gold inshrin'd. The bold adventurer ploughs his way, Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart, which grief assails, Treads soft and lonesome p'er the vales, Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks (as I have vainly done) Amusing thought; but learns to know That Solitude's the nurse of woe. No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground: Or in a soul exalted high, To range
the circuit of the sky,
Lovely, lasting peace, appear!