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The poplars are fell’d; farewell to the shade, And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade : The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse in his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they

grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before,
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

The change both my heart and my fancy employs ; I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys : Shortlived as we are, yet our pleasures we see Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.


O HAPPY shades—to me uvbless'd !

Friendly to peace, but not to me ! How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree !

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,

And please, if any thing could please.

But fix'd unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where,

And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers.

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley musing slow : They seek like me the secret shade,

But not like me to nourish woe !

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam ; These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

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Weak and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring

Vice seems already slain;
But Passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part ; Virtue engages his assent,

But Pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies,

His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length,

And dangers little knowu ;
A stranger to superior strength,

Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail,

To reach the distant coast : The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,

Or all the toil is lost.


The lapse of time and rivers is the same:
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace with which they steal away,
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay ;
Alike irrevocable both when pass’d,
And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,
A difference strikes at length the musing heart :
Streams never flow in vain ; where streams abound,
How laughs the land, with various plenty crown'd!
But Time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.



Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course ;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and bless'd where'er she goes,
Pure-bosom’d as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.





To the March in Scipio.

TOLL for the brave !

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.


Toll for the brave !

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last seafight is fought;

His work of glory done.

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