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And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise :
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads :
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.
Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours,
intervene : But the
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow :
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires :
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads :
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes ;
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beach, the sable yew;
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak, with broad-spread bougns:
And, beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood :
His sides are clothed with waving wood :
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps :
So both a safety from the wind
One mutual dependance find.
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ;
'Tis now the apartment of the toad ;
And there the fox securely feeds ;
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls.
Yet time has been, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete
Big with the vanity of state:
But transient is the smile of Fate.
A little rule, a little
A sun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.
And see the rivers, how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade, and sun,
Sometimes swift and sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave they go,
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses, green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky !
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the shady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm :
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.
See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the ev'ning gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eyə i
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem :
So we mistake the future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass,
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear :
Still we tread the same coarse way ;
The present's still a cloudy day.
I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see!
Content with me an humble shade,
My passions tam’d; my wishes laid,
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul :
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.
Now, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie ;
While the wanton zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings ;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.
Be full, ye courts! be great who will;
Search for Peace with all your skill ;
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor:
In vain ye search, she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murm’ring rill,
Hears the thrush while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.
CLIII. EDWARD LOVIBOND, 1700—1783.
VERSES WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON.
Here Charles lay shelter'd, from this desert shore
He launched the bark, and braved the tempest's roar;
He trusted here the faith of simple swains,
And ocean friendlier than Worcester's plains,
No beauteous forms, as now, adorned it then,
The downs were pathless, without haunt of men.
One shepherd wandered on the lowly hill,
One village maid explored the distant rill.
But mark the glittering scenes succeeding these;
See peopled all the shores and healing seas;
Yet, friend to Britain, flows alike the wave
With India's treasures and defrauds the
grave. Had fate now placed him on this fairy land; The thoughtless Charles had lingered on the strand, Nor danger chilled, nor high ambition fired That wanton bosom, by the loves inspired : His languid sails the monarch here had furled, Had gained a N -m's smile and lost the world.
CLIV. DR. DODDRIDGE, 1702-1751.
“ Live whilst you live,” the epicure would say,
“And taste the pleasures of the passing day.'
“Live whilst you live,” the sacred preacher cries
“And give to God each moment as it flies,”
Lord! in my life let both united be;
I live to pleasure if I live to Thee.
CLV. DR B. STILLINGFLEET, 1702–1771.
The rays of wit gild wheresoe'er they strike,
But are not therefore fit for all alike;
They charm the lively, but the grave offend,
And raise a foe as often as a friend :
Like the resistless beams of blazing light,
That cheer the strong and pain the weakly sight.
If a bright fancy therefore be your share,
Let judgment watch it with a guardian's care;
'Tis like a torrent apt to overflow,
Unless by constant government kept low;
And ne'er inefficacious passes by,
But overturns or gladdens all that's nigh.
Or else, like trees when suffered wild to shoot,
That put forth much but all unripen'd fruit,
It turns to affectation and grimace,
As like to wit, as dulness is to grace.
Would you be well received where'er you go,
Remember each man vanquished is a foe,
Resist not, therefore, with your utmost might,
But let the weakest think he's sometimes right;
He for each triumph you shall thus decline,
Shall give ten opportunities to shine :
He sees, since once you owned him to excel,
That 'tis his interest
should reason well. CLVI. ROBERT DODSLEY, 1703—1764.
1. THE MURDERED CHILD. O fearful silence! Not a sound returns, Save the wild echoes of my own sad cries, To my affrighted ear! My child, my child ! Where art thou wandered—where, beyond the reach Of ihy poor mother's voice ? Yet, while above The God of Justice dwells, I will not deem The bloody vision true. Heaven hath not left meThere truth is known, well known-and see my love ! See where upon the bank its wearied limbs Lie stretched in sleep. In sleep!-0 agony !
—0 Blast not my senses with a sight like this! 'Tis blood l 'tis death ! my child, my child is murdered !