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253

THE DELIGHTS OF VIRTUE.

Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives
The stealing foot of time! Or where the ground,
Mounded irregular, points out the graves

Of our forefathers, and the hallowed fane,
Where swains assembling worship, let us walk,
In softly-soothing melancholy thought,
As night's seraphic bard, immortal Young,
Or sweet-complaining Gray; there see the goal
Of human life, where drooping, faint, and tired,
Oft missed the prize, the weary racer rests.
Thus sung the youth, amid unfertile wilds
And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground!
Far from his friends he strayed, recording thus
The dear remembrance of his native fields,
To cheer the tedious night; while slow disease
Preyed on his pining vitals, and the blasts
Of dark December shook his humble cot.

ROBERT FERGUSSON.

BORN, 1751; DIED, 1774.

THE DELIGHTS OF VIRTUE.

RETURNING morn, in orient blush array'd,
With gentle radiance hail'd the sky serene;
No rustling breezes waved the verdant shade;
No swelling surge disturb'd the azure main.

These moments, Meditation! sure are thine
These are the halcyon joys you wish to find,
When nature's peaceful elements combine
To suit the calm composure of the mind.

The Muse, exalted by thy sacred power,
To the green mountain's airy summit flew,
Charm'd with the thoughtful stillness of an hour,
That usher'd beaming fancy to her view.

Fresh from old Neptune's fluid mansion sprung
The sun, reviver of each drooping flower;
At his approach, the lark, with matin song,
In notes of gratitude confess'd his power.

So shines fair Virtue, shedding light divine
On those who wish to profit by her ways;
Who ne'er at parting with their vice repine,
To taste the comforts of her blissful rays.

She with fresh hopes each sorrow can beguile;
Can dissipate adversity's deep gloom;
Make meagre poverty contented smile;
And the sad wretch forget his hapless doom.

Sweeter than shady groves in Summer's pride,
Than flowery dales or grassy meads, is she;
Delightful as the honeyed streams that glide
From the rich labours of the busy bee.

Her paths and alleys are for ever green :-
There innocence, in snowy robes array'd,
With smiles of pure content, is hail'd the queen
And happy mistress of the sacred shade.

Oh let no transient gleam of earthly joy,
From virtue lure your labouring steps aside;
Nor instant grandeur future hopes annoy
With thoughts that spring from insolence and pride.

Soon will the wingèd moments speed away,
When you'll no more the plumes of honour wear:
Grandeur must shudder at the sad decay,

And pride look humble when he ponders there.

Deprived of virtue, where is beauty's power?
Her dimpled smiles, her roses, charm no more;
So much can guilt the loveliest form deflower,
We loathe that beauty which we loved before.

THE LIBRARY.

How fair are virtue's buds, where'er they blow,
Or in the desert wild or garden gay!

Her flowers how sacred, wheresoe'er they show,
Unknown to killing canker and decay!

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GEORGE CRABBE.

BORN, 1754; DIED, 1832.

THE LIBRARY.

WHEN the sad soul, by care and grief opprest,
Looks round the world, but looks in vain, for rest;
When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom, and seems dejected too;
Where shall affliction from itself retire?
Where fade away, and placidly expire?
Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain,

Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain :
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,
Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream;
For when the soul is labouring in despair,
In vain the body breathes a purer air:

No storm-tossed sailor sighs for slumbering seas,
He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;
On the smooth mirror of the deep resides

Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides

The ghost of every former danger glides.
Thus in the calms of life we only see
A steadier image of our misery;
But lively gales and gently-clouded skies,
Disperse the sad reflections as they rise;
And busy thoughts and little cares avail
To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.
When the dull thought, by no designs employed,
Dwells on the past, or suffered or enjoyed,
We bleed anew in every former grief,
And joys departed furnish no relief.

Not hope herself, with all her flattering art,
Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart;
The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,
And anxious searches for congenial cares;

Those lenient cares which, with our own combined,
By mixed sensations ease the afflicted mind,
And steal our grief away, and leave their own behind;
A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure

Without regret, nor even demand a cure.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes? Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? This books can do ;--nor this alone; they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise: Their aid they yield to all; they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone : Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings.

CHARITY.

AN ardent spirit dwells with Christian Love,
The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;
'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,
That we the wants of pleading man supply;
That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,
Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal :
Not these suffice-to sickness, pain, and woe,
The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;
Will not be sought, waits not for Want to plead,
But seeks the duty-nay, prevents the need;
Her utmost aid to every ill applies,

And plants relief for coming miseries.

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SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCHYARD.

So passes silent o'er the dead, thy shade,
Brief time! and hour by hour, and day by day,
The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
And like a summer vapour steal away.

And have not they, who here forgotten lie
(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past),
Once mark'd thy shadow with delighted eye,

Nor thought it fled,-how certain and how fast?

Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,

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Noting each hour, o'er mould'ring stones beneath; The pastor and his flock alike have slept,

And "dust to dust" proclaim'd the stride of death.

Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,
Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,
As hope, and youth, and life, were in our pow'r;
So smiling and so perishing the while.

I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound
(When to these scenes a stranger I drew near),
Proclaim the tidings to the village round,

While mem'ry wept upon the good man's bier.

Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells
Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone;
While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,
And strangers gaze upon my humble stone!

Enough, if we may wait in calm content,

The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that heav'n has lent, And leave the issue to thy will, O God!

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