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As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictur'd crest. The screen unfolds its many-colourd chart. The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promis'd pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time ? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the cag'd linnet sooth’d my pensive

thought; Those muskets, cas'd with venerable rust; Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their

dust, Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life--all whisper of the past !

As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening ting'd the west, We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcom'd the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscrib'd, with friendship's votive rhyme, The bark now silver'd by the touch of time; Soard in the swing, half pleas'd, and half afraid, Thro' sister elms that wav'd their summer-shade; Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's lov'd group revisits every scene! The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green; Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Cloth'd with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know;

Whose just suggestions still each vain alarm,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
Thee would the Muse invoke!—to thee belong
The sage's precept, and the poet's song.
What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals,
When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight steals!
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave reflected lustres play;

Thy tempered gleams of happiness resign'd
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.
The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses

gray,
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn;
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,
Some little friendship form’d and cherish'd here;
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems
With golden visions, and romantic dreams!

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blaz'd The Gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gaz'd; Gaz'd on her-sunburnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest shade, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call, Whose elfin prowess scald the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And trac'd the line of life with searching view, How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and

fears, To learn the colour of my future years!

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Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my

breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray) Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sigh'd to think that little was no more, He breath'd his prayer, “ Long may such goodness

live!” 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Angels, when mercy's mandate wing'd their flight, Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight.

But hark! thro' those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes!

ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that time may soon efface.

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danc'd, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectur'd every youth that round him play'd; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Rous'd us to rival each, the hero of his day.

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth! Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age belov’d, in poverty rever'd; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.

But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep,
When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind
With sighs so sweet, with transports so refin'd ?

Ethereal Power! who at the noon of night
Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight;
From whom that musing, melancholy mood
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Blest Memory, hail! Oh grant the grateful Muse,
Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

ROGERS

ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

COME, Disappointment, come!

Not in thy terrors clad ;
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ;
Thy chast’ning rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign' thy peaceful cypress

twine.

Tho' Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,
Yet Meditation, in her cell,
Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring knell,
That tells her hopes are dead ;

And tho' the tear

By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, “My all was not laid here."

Come, Disappointment, come!

Tho’ from hope's summit hurld,
Still, rigid nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from heaven,
To wean me from the world:

To turn my eye

From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

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What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!
A little sun a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)
Yields

up

his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies :
Will the cold earth its silence break,
And tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies ?

Mute, mute is all,

O’er beauty's fall, Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her

pall.

The most belov'd on earth

Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

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