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HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear;

He gain'd from Heav'n, 'twas all he wish'd, a Friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his trailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.

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O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren and bare,
As wilder'd and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from richCeres her cottagehad crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast,

Fresh fruits!-and she cull'd me the best; Whilst, thrown from my guard by some glances she cast, Love slily stole into my breast.

I told my soft wishes-she sweetly reply'd,
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)
"I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd;
Yet take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine."

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple, yet sweet were her charms,
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep;
And if on the banks by the stream,
Reclin❜d on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And mark out new themes for my Muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace is well-known for her sire,
And shepherds have nam'd her, Content.




OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain,
And pray'd till I've been weary;
For once I'll try my wish to gain
Of Oberon the fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
That lurk'st in woods unseen,
And oft by Cynthia's silver light
Tripp'st gaily o'er the green;

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
As ancient stories tell,

And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd,
Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

Oh! deign once more t' exert thy power;
Haply some herb or tree,

Sov'reign as juice of western flower,
Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love,

No tempting charm to please:
Far from the heart those gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease.


Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,

Which, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But, turning, trembles too.

Far, as distress the soul can wound,
'Tis pain in each degree:
'Tis bliss but to a certain bound;
Beyond, is agony.

Take then this treacherous sense of mine,
Which dooms me still to smart;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pains new pangs impart.

Oh! haste to shed the sacred balm!
My shatter'd nerves new string;
And for my guest, serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring.

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear,
See Expectation fly;

And Disappointment in the rear,
That blasts the promis'd joy.

The tear which pity taught to flow,
The eye shall then disown;

'The heart that melts for others' woe

Shall then scarce feel its own.

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