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Here can no influence boast; but here true TASTE
TO FASHION rarely known, enamour'd roves
And rapt, becomes DEVOTION, while the tear
Steals the flush'd cheek adown, as on the rose
Glitters the dew-drop. Hail again, bright scene!
On the moist gale of Eve shall I breathe forth
The song of praise to thee, responsive still
To Ocean's solemn roar? or shall I stand
In SACRED SILENCE bound, Devotion's friend,
And list'ning, let my eager ear drink in
The distant, mingling sounds that Fancy loves,
'Till every thought's thanksgiving, and the lips
Can only murmur praise? And lo! my lips
In utterance fail, and SILENCE I am thine.


To a BEE.

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy busy Bee!
As abroad I took my early way,

Before the Cow from her resting place
Had risen up, and left her trace

On the meadow with dew so gray,

I saw thee, thou busy busy Bee.

Thou wert alive, thou busy busy Bee!

When the crowd in their sleep were dead.

Thouwert abroad in the freshest hour,

When the sweetest odour comes from the flower; Man will not learn to leave his lifeless bed,

And be wise and copy thee, thou busy busy Bee.


Thou wert working late, thou busy busy Bee!
After the fall of the Cistus flower,

I heard thee last as I saw thee first,

When the Primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst, In the coolness of the evening hour,

I heard thee, thou busy busy Bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy busy Bee!

Late and early at employ ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy youth in heaping and hoarding is spent What thy age will never enjoy ;

I will not copy thee, thou miserly Bee.

Thou art a fool, thou busy busy Bee,
Thus for another to toil!

Thy master waits till thy work is done,
Till the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And then he will seize the spoil,

He will murder thee, thou poor little Bee!



Dost thou, then, listening to the traveller's tale
Of mountainous wilds, and towns of ancient fame,
And spacious bays, and streams renown'd of name
That roll their plenty thro' the freshen'd vale ;
Dost thou then long to voyage far away,

And visit other lands, that thou mayest view
These varied scenes so beautiful and new?
Thou dost not know how sad it is to stray
Amid a foreign land, thyself unknown,
And when o'erwearied with the toilsome day
To rest at eve and feel thyself alone.
Delightful sure it is at early morning

To see the sun-beam shine on scenes so fair,
And when the eve the mountain heights adorning
Sinks slow, empurpling the luxurious air.
Pleasant it is at times like these to roam,

But wouldst thou not at night, confined within Thy foul and comfortless and lonely inn, Remember with a sigh the joys of home?




Come Muse and seize the trump of fame To sing great PACKWOOD's growing name, No king deserves it louder.

Then swell your deep sonorous voice,

To him who mortals bids rejoice;

And seek his strap and powder!.


Oh! had'st thou flourish'd in a age,.
When every hero, saint and sage,

Like modern Psalmanazor,

Their hairy honours wore at length,
And every beard was gaining strength,
For want of Patent Razor !

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