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The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only : for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspired delight : her tempered powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects--if to gaze
On Nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations-if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye, then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous powers ?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons : all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine : he tells the heart
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being; to be great like him,
Beneficent, and active. Thus the men
Whom Nature's works can charm, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions, act upon his plan,
And form to his the relish of their souls.

DAVID MALLETT. 1700-1765.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

'Twas at the silent, solemn hour

When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April morn,

Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,

T'hat held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear,

When Death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,

That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,

Consumed her early prime:
The rose grew pale and left her cheek;

She died before her time.

“ Awake!” she cried, “thy true love calls,

Come from her midnight-grave;Now let thy pity hear the maid

Thy love refused to save. “ This is the dumb and dreary hour,

When injured ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead,

To haunt the faithless swain.

“ Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.

• Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright,

Yet leave those eyes to weep ?
“How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break ?

“Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale ?
And why did I, young witless maid !

Believe the flattering tale ?

“ That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red:
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,
And every charm is fled.

“The hungry-worm my sister is;

This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

“But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence ;

A long and late adieu!
Come see, false man, how low she lies,

Who died for love of you.”
The lark sung loud; the morning smiled

With beams of rosy red :
Pale William quaked in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay,
And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf,

That wrapp'd her breathless clay.
And thrice he call’d on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spoke never more !

WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 1714-1763.

ODE TO MEMORY.

On Memory! celestial maid !

Who glean’st the flowerets cropp'd by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind. And bring that garland to my sight

With which my favour'd crook she bound; And bring that wreath of roses bright

Which then my festive temples crown'd;
And to my raptured ear convey
The gentle things she deign’d to say.
And sketch with care the Muse's bower,

Where Isis rolls her silver tide;
Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side ;
If so thou may'st those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.
The song it 'vails not to recite-

But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appeard more bright

Than other banks, than other streams :

Or, by thy softening pencil shown,
Assume thy beauties, not their own.
And paint that sweetly vacant scene,

When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breathed in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb’d of sight,

On thy expressive power depends ; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines. But let me chase those vows away

Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,

And bring the hobby I bestrode; When, pleased, in many a sportive ring,

Around the room I jovial rode :
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.
Then will I muse, and pensive say,

Why did not those enjoyments last? How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste !
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

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