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One generons swain her heart approved,

A youth, whose fond and faithful breast,

With many an artless sigh confest,
In Nature's language that he loved:

But Stranger, 'tis no tale for thee, .
Unless thou lovest Simplicity.

He died—and soon her lip was cold,

And soon her rosy lip was pale,

The village wept to hear the tale
When for both the slow bell tollid

Beneath yon flowery turf they lie,
The lovers of Simplicity.

Yet one boon have I to crave;

Stranger, if thy pity bleed,

Wilt thou do one tender deed,
And strew my pale flowers o'er their grave?

So lightly lie the turf on thee,
Because thou lovest Simplicity,

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 flung his glass, his scythe away,

And seem'd himself, a child.

The poplar tall, that waving near

Would whisper to thy mormurs free ;
Yet rustling seems to soothe mine eàr,

And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Yet seated on thy sheltering brim,
Can Fancy see the Naiads trim

Burnish their green locks in the sun;
Or at the last lone hour of day,
To chase the lightly glancing jay,

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?
When first in Eden's rosy vale,
My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,

The vow sincere, devoid of guile!
While Delia in her panting breast,
With sighs, the tender thought supprest,

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!

0! yet those gleams of joy display, Which brightening glow'd in Fancy's ray

When, near thy lucid urn reclined, The Dryad, Nature, bared her breast, And left, in naked charms imprest,

Her image on my mind.

In vain--the maids of Memory fair

No more in golden visions play;
No friendship smoothes the brow of care.

No Delia's smile approves my lay.
Yet, love and friendship lost to me,
'Tis yet some joy to think of thee,

And in thy breast this mortal find; . That life, tho' stain'd with sorrow's showers, Shall flow serene, while Virtue pours

Her sunshine on the mind.



Kenrick's memory will be perpetuated by the slight meri

tion which Goldsmith makes of him in his Poem of « RETALIATION,” his own efforts were not the best directed for the accomplishment of that purpose ; for he lived in a state of warfare, and died unregretted by his contemporaries,

The Force of Prejudices

The Hint from Helvetius.

Once on a time, or story lies,
A Deity forsook the skies ;
And rambling, curious, up and down,
Enter'd, at length, an Africk town!

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