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HYMN TO THE EVENING.
E’er the sun's declining ray
Has left yon distant sky,
Has shut upon the eye;
Come, modest Ev'ning, kindly spread
Thy dusk-ensabled vest,
Devotion on the breast.
O lift the mind to bless the pow'r,
Whose mem'ry still shall last ! And bid him prize the present hour,
Whose madness lost the past.
Insructive, tell the pomp of state,"
The pride of mighty blood, That none are ever truly great,
That are not truly good.
To all one admonition give,
Unfearful of reply,
A PESNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS.
TO A LADY.
You bid a penny for my thoughts,
I will unfold them fairly ;
And know, I love you dearly.
I think you have a form and mind
In ev'ry part complete ;
To harbour base deceit.
I think no love can ever last
Which does not meet return; I think love's fire a sudden blast,
Where souls don't equal burn.
I think true happiness depends
Upon a mutual love ;
The end will fatal prove.
I think you temp’rate, chaste, and true,
Mild, cleanly, and discreet;
Which make c'en bondage sweet.
I think of you whene'er I think,
And so I shall for ever ;
hen fortune reigns in splendid pride, What madding thousands court her shrine; With sweet simplicity their guide,
Oh, love! how few resort to thine.
Yet when of fortune's smile possess’d,
The sigh for other days they pour; Some secret horror stings the breast,
And languor fills each listless hour.
But love's pure joys unsullied last,
His vot'ries taste a bliss sublime
Peter Pindar. SONG,
Away, let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifređa, move thy fear,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy care.
What, tho' no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood, We'll shine in more substantial honours,
And to be noble---we'll be good.
What, tho' from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess, We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.
Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes, give, For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.
Our name, whilst virtue thus we tender,
Shall sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones'much shall wonder
How they admire such little folk.
Thro' youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll band in band together tread,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
Whilst round my knees they fondly clung, To see 'em look their mother's features,
To hear 'em lisp their mother's tongue.
And when, with envy, time transported
Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I go wooing with my boys.
Cooper's Letters on Taste.
Ye wise, instruct me to endure