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Thus sang the mournful bird her piteous tale;
The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd:
Then side by side they sought the distant vale;
And there in secret sadness inly mourn'd.

Elegy to Pity.

HAIL, lovely power! whose bosom heaves the sigh,
When fancy paints the scene of deep distress;
Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye,
When rigid fate denies the power to bless.

Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey

From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare; Nor dewdrops glitt'ring in the morning ray,

Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear.

Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play;
Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies;
No blood-stained traces mark thy blameless way;
Beneath thy feet no hapless insect dies.

Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me,
To spring the partridge from the guileful foe;
From secret snares the struggling bird to free;
And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow.

And when the air with heat meridian glows,
And nature droops beneath the conqu'ring gleam,
Let us, slow wandering where the current flows,
Save sinking flies that float along the stream.

Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care,
To me thy sympathetic gifts impart;
Teach me in friendship's grief to bear a share,
And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart.

Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief;
With timely aid the widow's woes assuage;
To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief;

And be the sure resource of drooping age.

So when the genial spring of life shall fade,
And sinking nature own the dread decay,
Some soul congenial then may lend its aid,
And gild the close of life's eventful day.

The Sluggard.

'Tis the voice of the Sluggard-I heard him compain, "You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again." As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,

Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

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"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;"

Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without number :
And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn, and the thistle. grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find

He had ta'en better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and drinking:
But he scarce reads the Bible, and never loves thinking,

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me;
That man's but a picture of what I might be:
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading!"

Remember the Poor.

Now winter is come, with his cold chilling breath,
And the verdure has dropp'd from the trees;
All nature seems touch'd with the finger of death,
And the streams are beginning to freeze.
When wanton young lads, o'er the river can slide,
And Flora attends us no more;

When in plenty you sit by a good fireside,

Sure you ought to remember the poor

When the cold feather'd snow does in plenty descend,
And whiten the prospect around; ̧

When the keen cutting winds from the north shall attend,
Hard chilling and freezing the ground;

When the hills and the dales are all candied with white,
When the rivers congeal to the shore,

When the bright twinkling stars shall proclaim a cold night,
Then remember the state of the poor.

When the poor harmless hare may be trac'd to the wood,
By her footsteps indented in snow;

When the lips and the fingers are starting with blood;
When the marksmen a cock-shooting go;

When the poor robin redbreast approaches the cot;

When the icicles hang at the door;

When the bowl smokes with something reviving and hot,
That's the time to remember the poor.

When a thaw shall ensue, and the waters increase,

And the rivers all insolent grow,

When the fishes from prison obtain a release;
When in danger the travellers go:

When the meadows are hid with the proud swelling flood;
When the bridges are useful no more;

When in health you enjoy every thing that is good,
Can you murmur to think on the poor?

Soon the day will be here, when a Saviour was born,
All the world should agree as one voice;

All nations unite to salute the blest morn;
All ends of the earth should rejoice.
Grim death is depriv'd of his all-killing sting,
And the grave is triumphant no more;
Saints, angels, and men, hallelujahs shall sing,
And the rich shall remember the poor.

Rural Charms.

SWEET Auburne! loveliest village of the plain!
Where health and plenty cheers the labouring swain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease!

Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please!
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm-
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church, that topp'd the neighbouring hill; The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.

How often have I blest the coming day, When toil, remitting, lent its turn to playAnd all the village train. from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree! While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd ! And many a gambol frolic'd o'er the ground, And slights of art, and feats of strength, went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd: The dancing pair, that simply sought renown, By holding out, to tire each other down The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love;

The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up vonder hill the village murmur rose.

There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below.
The swain, responsive as the milk-maid sung;
The sober herd, that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese, that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children, just let loose from school;
The watchdog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring wind;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind:
These all, in soft confusion, sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

Unhappy close of Life.

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions!
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement;
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help--
But shrieks in vain How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, vet a little longer,

O might she stay to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood. and every groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a staunch murd'rer steady to his purpose
Pursues her close through ev'ry lane of life;
Nor misses once the track, but presses on,
Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

To-Morrow.

How sweet to the heart is the thought of to-morrow,
When hope's fairy pictures bright colours display!
How sweet when we can from futurity borrow
A balm for the griefs that afflict us to-day!

When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish,
For health and the comfort it bears on its wing,

Let me hope! (O! how soon it would lessen my anguish
That to-morrow will peace and serenity bring.
When trav'lling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended,
Sweet the hope that to-morrow my wand'rings will cease
That at home, then, with care sympathetic attended,
I shall rest unmolested, and slumber in peace.

Or, when from the friends of my heart long divided,
The fond expectation with joy how replete;

That from far distant regions by Providence guided,
To-morrow will see us most happily meet.

A kind and gentle temper of great importance to the happiness of life.
SINCE trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our mis'ry from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can save, or serve, but all can please;
O! let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence:
Large bounties to bestow, we wish in vain;
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With pow'r to grace them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies; but Heav'n decrees
To all, the gift of minist'ring to ease.
The gentle offices of patient love,

Beyond all flatt'ry, and all price above;
The mild forbearance of another's fault;

The taunting word suppress'd as soon as thought;
On these Heav'n bade the sweets of life depend;
And crush'd ill fortune when it made a friend.
A solitary blessing few can find;

Our joys with those we love are intertwin'd:
And he whose wakeful tenderness removes

Th' obstructing thorn which wounds the friend he loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,

But scatters roses to adorn his own.

Small slights, contempt, neglect, unmix'd with hate,
Make up in number what they want in weight:
These, and a thousand griefs minute as these,
Corrode our comforts, and destroy our peace.

The Progress of Improvement.

COME, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ;
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murd'rous tomahawk;
There shall the flocks on thymy pastures stray,
And shepherds dance at Summer's op'uing day;
Each wand'ring genius of the lonely glen
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men,

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