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Thus fades the Flow'r, nip'd by the frozen Gale,
Tho' once so sweet, fo lovely to the Eye:
Thus the tall Oaks, when boift'rous Storms affail,
Torn from the Earth, a mighty Ruin lye.

Ye facred Sifters of the plaintive Verse,
Now let the Stream of fond Affection flow,
O pay your Tribute o'er the flow-drawn Hearfe,
With all the manly Dignity of Woe.

Oft when the Curfew tolls its parting Knell,
With folemn Pause yon CHURCH-YARD'S Gloom
furvey,

While Sorrow's fighs, and Tears of Pity tell,
How juft the Moral of the Poet's Lay ‡.

O'er his green Grave, in Contemplation's Guise,
Oft let the Pilgrim drop a filent Tear,

Oft let the Shepherd's tender Accents rife,

Big with the Sweets of each revolving Year, Till proftrate Time adore his deathlefs Name, Fix'd on the folid Bafe of Adamantine Fame,

Elegy in a Country CHURCH-YARD.

ODE

O

DE

то

SIMPLICITY.

(By the fame.)

IMPLICITY! thou lovely Fair,
To thee the Mufe devotes her Song,
To thee directs her ardent Pray'r,
For thee the leaves the civic Throng,
Who vainly chase the baseless Joys,
Which every empty Breeze deftroys.

To gain the Courtier's faithless Smile,
Amid the Glare of Courts to shine,
Let giddy Mortals idly toil,

I'll feek thy calm fequefter'd Shrine:
Where Health, Content, and Peace unite,
To give the Soul fupreme Delight.

How sweet, fair Nymph, with Thee to dwell!
Where vernal Beauties cloath the Field,
How sweet to view thy rugged Cell,

Beneath the mofs-grown Rock conceal'd;
Where Contemplation's powerful Beam,
To Fancy gives the vagrant Dream.

How

How sweet with Innocence to rove!
Amid thy foft bewitching Throng!
Who tread the pleafing Paths of Love,
And often raife the rural Song,

Which fooths the fondly-listening Ear,
And melts the Souls of those who hear.

Haste then, dear Nymph, with Brow ferene,
Conduct me to thy Sylvan Seat,
Hafte, lead me to the peaceful Scene,
Where thou haft fix'd thy bleft Retreat,
And there with fond Regard I'll pay
The Tribute of a rustic Lay..

Beneath yon Shade, beyond yon Thorn,
Where Nature's Songfters raise the Strain,
With Thee I'll pass the chearful Morn,
Remote from Sorrow, Grief, and Pain,
Save when the fadly-plaintive Note
Burfts from sweet Philomela's Throat.

Oft on yon blooming Bed of Flow'rs,
Whofe balmy Fragrance fcents the Gale,
With thee I'll pafs the Noon-tide Hours,
Intent to hear the Shepherd's Tale,
Which flows from thy exhauftlefs Store,
Diffufing Joys unknown before.

Oft when the Shades of Evening fall,
And Cynthia fhines with doubtful Light,
On Thee delightful Nymph I'll call,
To fhow the Rock's ftupendous Height,
Where all thy Beauties ftrike the Eye,
With Grandeur, Pomp, and Majesty.

And

And to these Valleys oft I'll rove,
Where Midnight Fairies join the Ring,
Led on by Freedom, Mirth, and Love,
Infpir'd by Fancy when they fing;
And there from Pride, from Envy free,
I'll dedicate myself to thee.

VOL. III.

T

ODE

D

то

E

SYMPATHY.

(By the fame.)

AIL ye SYMPATHETIC Pleafures,

H Soft Deluders of the Mind,

Your's are Fancy's glowing Measures,
Your's are Virtue's Joys refin'd.

Your's are Pity's kindred Sorrows,
Your's are Mercy's chearing Smiles,
Your's the Form which Tranfport borrows,
Where no selfish Blifs beguiles.

Hafte ye pleafing Powers, and banish
From my Breaft each partial Care,

Let th' unfocial Purpose vanish,
In the boundlefs Fields of Air.

Give

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