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XII.

Oh think, o'er all this mortal stage,

What mournful scenes arife:

What ruin waits on kingly rage:

How often virtue dwells with woe:

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WHOE'ER thou art whofe path in fummer lies Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove Of branching oaks a rural palace old

Imbofoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord

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Of all the harvest round. and onward thence s
A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
Faft by a filent riv'let. Humbly walk,
O, ftranger, o'er the confecrated ground;
And on that verdant hilloc, which thou fee'ft
Befet with ofiers, let thy pious hand
Sprinkle fresh water from the brook and ftrew
Sweet-fmelling flowers. for there doth Edmund reft,
The learned fhepherd; for each rural art
Fam'd, and for fongs harmonious, and the woes
Of ill-requited love. The faithlefs pride
Of fair Matilda fank him to the

grave

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In manhood's prime. But foon did righteous heaven
With tears, with fharp remorfe, and pining care,
Avenge her falfhood. nor could all the gold
And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith 20
From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,
Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside
The ftrokes of death. Go, traveller; relate
The mournful ftory. haply fome fair maid
May hold it in remembrance, and be taught 25
That riches cannot pay for truth or love.

Me tho' in life's fequefter'd vale
The Almighty fire ordain'd to dwell,

Remote from glory's toilfome ways,
And the great fcenes of public praise;
Yet let me ftill with grateful pride
Remember how my infant frame
He temper'd with prophetic flame,
And early mufic to my tongue fupply'd.

"Twas then my future fate he weigh'd,
And, This be thy concern, he faid,
At once with Passion's keen alarms,
And Beauty's pleasurable charms,
And facred Truth's eternal light,
To move the various mind of Man;
Till under one unblemish'd plan,
His Reafon, Fancy, and his Heart unite.

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O DE

ON THE FIFTH OF DECEMBER, BEING THE BIRTH-DAY OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG

LADY.

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART. *

I.

HAIL, eldeft of the monthly train,

Sire of the winter drear,

December, in whofe iron reign.

Expires the chequer'd Year.

Hush all the bluft'ring blafts that blow,
And proudly plum'd in filver fnow,

Smile gladly on this bleft of Days.
The livery'd clouds fhall on thee wait,
And Phoebus fhine in all his ftate

With more than fummer rays.

II.

Tho' jocund June may justly boast
Long days and happy hours,

Tho' Auguft be Pomona's hoft,

And May be crown'd with flow'rs;

* Born 1722; dyed 1770.

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Tell June, his fire and crimson dies,
By Harriot's blush, and Harriot's eyes,
Eclips'd and vanquish'd, fade away:
Tell Auguft, thou canst let him fee
A richer, riper fruit than he,

A fweeter flow'r than May.

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