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A Paraphrase.

Bless'd is the fair who shuns the place
Where aged maidens meet;
Who hates to tread unsocial ways,
And flies the virgin's seat.

But in the duties of a wife,

Has plac'd her soul's delight; By day she leads a happy life, And raptures crown the night.

Fresh as a leaf, and ever fair,

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Her name and face shall shine While fruits of mutual love appear, Like clusters on the vine.

She like a plant, by water set,
Shall dwell in health and peace ;
No fruitless wish her soul shall fret,
But happiness increase.

Not so old maids, who lie alone,

What vain desires they feel;

Their charms, their hopes, together flown,

Like chaff before the gale.

While young, this great command they spurn, "Increase and multiply;"

But, punish'd in their age, they burn,
They languish, and they die.

The Lord delights in those who wed,
His heart approves them well;
But those who die old maids, shall lead
For ever apes in H-ll.


Ode on the Death of Mr. Thompson.


In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave; Our year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds,
His airy harp shall now be laid;
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in pity's ear,

To hear the wood-land pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

When Thames in summer wreaths is dress'd And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest.

And oft as ease and health retire,
To breezy lawn or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail,
Or tears which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one whose heedless eye,

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near

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With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide,
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend;
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold arf hides the buried friend.

And see the fair, the valleys fade,

Dim night has veil'd the solemn view;
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu.

The genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom,
Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
O vales and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies.


Conclusion of the House of Mourning.

To-day man's dress'd in gold and silver bright,
And in a shroud is wrapp'd to-morrow night:
To-day he's nice, and scorns to feed on crumbs,
To-morrow he's himself a feast for worms:
To-day he's honour'd, and in vast esteem,
To-morrow not a beggar values him :
To-day he rises from the velvet bed,

To-morrow lies in one that's made of lead :


To-day his house, tho' large, he thinks but small,
To-morrow can command no house at all:
To-day has many servants at his gate,
To-morrow, scorn'd-not one on him will wait :
To-day perfum'd as sweet as any rose,
To-morrow, oh! why turn away thy nose?
To-day he's grand, majestic, all delight,
Ghastly and pale before to-morrow night.
True as the Scripture says, "Man's life's a span,"
Lord! what a momentary thing is man!

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