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12. He liked the soil, he liked the clement skies, He liked the verdant hills and flowery plains. Be this my great, my chosen isle (he cries), This, whilst my labours Liberty sustains, This Queen of Ocean all assault disdains. Nor liked he less the genius of the land, To freedom apt and persevering pains, Mild to obey, and generous to command, Temper'd by forming Heaven with kindest, firmest hand.

13. Here, by degrees, his master-work arose, Whatever Arts and Industry can frame; Whatever finish'd Agriculture knows,

Fair Queen of Arts! from heaven itself who came
When Eden flourish'd in unspotted fame:
And still with her sweet Innocence we find,
And tender Peace, and joys without a name,
That, while they ravish, tranquillize the mind:
Nature and Art at once delight and use combin'd.

14. Then towns he quicken'd by mechanic arts,
And bade the fervent city glow with toil;
Bade social Commerce raise renowned marts,
Join land to land, and marry soil to soil,
Unite the poles, and without bloody spoil
Bring home of either Ind the gorgeous stores;
Or, should despotic rage the world embroil,

Bade tyrants tremble on remotest shores,

While o'er th' encircling deep Britannia's thunder roars.

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EXTRACTS FROM GOLDSMITH.

DESERTED VILLAGE.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whisp'ring lovers made!
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,

And sleights of art, and feats of strength went round;
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms But all these charms are fled.

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SCHOOLMASTER OF THE OLD SCHOOL.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school;

A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declar'd how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill,
For, e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still;
While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around,
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head should carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.

38

EXTRACTS FROM BEATTIE.

MELODIES OF MORN.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the low valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, and linnets' lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark, Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.

DANGERS OF FANCY.

"I cannot blame thy choice (the sage replied),
For soft and smooth are Fancy's flowery ways.
And yet even there, if left without a guide,
The young adventurer unsafely plays.
Eyes dazzled long by Fiction's gaudy rays
In modest Truth no light nor beauty find.

And who, my child, would trust the meteor-blaze, That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind, More dark and helpless far than if it ne'er had shined!

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Fancy enervates, while it soothes, the heart,
And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight;
To joy each heightening charm it can impart,
But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night.
And often, where no real ills affright,
Its visionary fiends, and endless train,
Assail with equal or superior might,

And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain, And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain.

"And yet, alas! the real ills of life

Claim the full vigour of a mind prepared,
Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife,
Its guide Experience, and Truth its guard.
We fare on earth as other men have fared:
Were they successful? Let not us despair.
Was disappointment oft their sole reward?
Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare

How they have borne the load ourselves are doom'd to bear."

DUTY OF HUMILITY.

O, Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,
Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel :
Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;
But let us hope, to doubt, is to rebel,
Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

Nor be thy generous indignation check'd,
Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given;
From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,
This soften and refine the soul for Heaven.

But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven
To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego:
Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,
Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,
But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,
Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,
Exclaim, that Nature hastens to decay,
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend!

Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay
Which bade the series of events extend

Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end.

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