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THE BLIND BOY.
O SAY, what is that thing call'd light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy ?
What are the blessings of the sight?

0, tell your poor blind boy! You talk of wond'rous things you sec,

You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,

Whene'er I Neep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,

With me 'twere always day. With heavy fighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy ;
While thus I fing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.

INSCRIBED ON A ROSEMARY TREE,

PLANTED IN A COTTAGE GARDEN. O Thou! who love and fancy lead

To wander near this woodland hill,

If ever music smooth'd thy quill, Or Pity wak'd thy gentle reed,

Repose beneath my humble tree,

If thou lov’lt SIMPLICITY. Stranger! if thy lot has laid

In toilfome scenes of busy life,

Full forelv may'st thou rue the firife
Of weary paffions ill repaid.

In a GARDEN live with me,
If thou lov'si SIMPLICITY.

Flow'rs have sprung for many a year

O'er the viilage-maiden's grave,

That, one memorial-sprig to fave,. Bore it from a fifter's bier;

And homeward walking, wept o'er me

The true tears of SIMPLICITY. And foon, her cottage window near,

With care my flender ftem the plac'd;

And fondly thus her grief embrac'd, And cherish'd fad remembrance dear:

For Love fincere, and FRIENDSHIP free,

Are children of SIMPLICITY. When past was many a painful day,

Slow-pacing o'er the village-green,

In white were all its maidens seen, And bore my guardian friend away.

Ah, DEATH! what facrifice to thee,

The ruins of SIMPLICITY!
One gen’rous swain her heart approv'd,

A youth whose fond and faithful breast

With many an artless figh confeft, In NATURE's language, that he lov'd.

But stranger ! 'tis no tale to thee,

Unless thou lov'ft SIMPLICITY. He died-and foon her lip was cold,

And foon her rosy cheek was pale ;

The village wept to hear the tale, When for both, the Now bell toll’d.

Beneath yon flow'ry turf they lie,

The lovers of SIMPLICITY. Yet one boon I have to crave;

Stranger! if thy Pity bleed,

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

So lightly lie the turf on thee,
Because thou lov'ft SIMPLICITY!

THE RURAL RETREAT. MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall footh my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall ling'r near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest, Around my ivied porch shall spring, Each fragrant flow'r that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall fing, In rufset-gown and apron blue. The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n, With merry-peals thall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n.

THE REQUEST.
How short is life's uncertain fpace;

Alas ! how quickly done!
How swift the wild precarious chase!
And yet how difficult the race,
How
very

hard to run ! Youth ftops at first its wilful ears

To WISDOM's prudent voice;
Till now arriv'd at riper years,
Experienc'd AGE, worn out with cares,

Repents its earlier choice.
What though its prospects now appear

So pleasing and refin'd,
Yet groundless Hope, and anxious FEAR,
By turns the busy moments share,

And prey upon the mind.
Since then falfe joys our fancy cheat

With hopes of real bliss ;
Ye guardian pow’rs, that rule my fate,
The only wish that I create,

Is all compriz'd in this:

May 1, through life's uncertain tide,

Be fiill from pain exempt; May all my wants be ftill supply'd, My state too low t’admit of PRIDE,

And yet above CONTEMPT! But thould your providence divine,

A greater blits intend; May all those blessings you design (If e'er those bleflings shall be mine)

Be center'd in a FRIEND.

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ON A PROSPECT OF EATON-COLLEGE. YE diftant spires, ye antique tow’rs,

That crown the wat’ry glade ;
Where graceful science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that from the itately brow,
Of windsor's heights th’expanfe below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whofe turf, whose shade, whose flow’rs among,
Wanders the hoary THAMES along

His filver-winding way!
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing fhade!

Ah, fields belov’d in vain!
Where once my careless childhood ftray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow;

As, waving fresh their glad fome wing,
My weary soul they seem to tooth,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second SPRING.
Say, father THAMES (for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race,
Difporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace) Who, foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arms, thy glasly wave?

The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or

urge the flying ball ? While, fome on earnest busʼness bent,

Their murm’ring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To Tweeten LIBERTY; Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The fun-fhine of the breast:
Theirs buxom HEALTH, of rosy hue,
Wild wỊT, INVENTION ever new,

And lively CHEER, of VIGOUR born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the Numbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardlefs of their doom,

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet fee, how all around them wait,
The ministers of human fate,

And black MISFORTUNE's baleful train!
Ah! shew them where in ambush ftand,
To seize their prey the murd’rous band!

Ah, tell them they are MEN !
These shall the fury PASSIONS tear,

The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful ANGER, pallid FEAR,
And SHAME, that skulks behind ;

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