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Behold, in you unconscious grove,
Parent of virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to sorrow's cry; If now the pity streaming tear
Should haply on thy cheek be dry, ļndulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity!
Rural Simplicity, an Oue.
O THOU, whom Love and Fancy lead,
To wander near this woodland hill,
If ever musick soothed thy quill,
Repose beneath my humble tree,
Stranger, if thy lot has laid
In toi!some scenes of busy life,
Full sorely may'st thou see the strife, Of weary passions ill repaid,
In a garden live like me, Įf thou lovest Simplicity.
Flowers have sprung for many a year,
O'er the village maiden's grave,
That, one memorial-spring to save,
And homeward walking, wept o'er me
And soon, her cottage-window near,
With care my slender stem she placed,
And fondly, thus her grief embraced,
For love sincere and friendship free,
When past was many a painful day,
Slow-pacing o'er the village-green
In white were all its maidens seen, And love my guardian friend away. Oh, Death! what sacrifice to thee The ruins of Simplicity,
One generons swain her heart approved,
A youth, whose fond and faithful breast,
With many an artless sigh confest,
But Stranger, 'tis no tale for thee,
He ied—and soon her lip was cold,
And soon her rosy lip was pale,
The village wept to hear the tale
Beneath yon flowery turf they lie,
Yet one boon have I to crave;
Stranger, if thy pity bleed,
Wilt thou do one tender deed,
So lightly lie the turf on thee,
Ode to the River Eden. DelighTFUL Eden! parent stream,
Yet shall the maids of Memory say, When, led by Fancy's fairy dream,
My young steps traced thy winding way: How oft along thy mazy shore, Where slowly waved the willows hoar,
In pensive thought their poet stray'd ; Or, dozing near thy meadow'd side, Beheld thy dimply waters glide,
Bright thro' the trembling shade.
Yet shall they paint those scenes again,
Where once with infant-joy he play'd, And bending o'er thy liquid plain,
The azure worlds below survey'd ; Led by the rosy-handed hours, When Time trip'd o’er that bank of flowers,
Which in thy crystal bosom smiled! Tho' old the God, yet light and gay, He Aung his glass, his scythe away,
And seem'd himself, a child.
The poplar tall, that waving near
Would whisper to thy mnrmurs free ; Yet rustling seems to soothe mine ear,
And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Burnish their green locks in the sun;
In airy circles run.
But Fancy, can thy mimick power,
Again those happy moments bring ? Canst thou restore that golden hour,
When young Joy waved his laughing wing!
The vow sincere, devoid of guile!
And look'd as angels smile.
O Goddess of the crystal brow,
That dwells't the golden meads among ; Whose streams still fair in memory flow, Whose murmurs melodize my song!