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OF pride and mad ambition we complain,

Destructive war and violence, in vain ;
Ill temper's baneful influence o'er the mind
More pain creates than all those ills combin'd;
Bids social love in every

bofom cease,
And clouds the beauteous beams of smiling peace;
Blasts every joy that blooms to sweeten life,
Embitters happiness and lengthens ftrife.
To calm the troubled breast, to soften woe,
To stop the tear misfortune taught to flow,
He, that surveys our griefs with pitying eyes,
Sent down the nymph Good-humour from the skies ;
Her beauteous presence beams perpetual day,
The Loves and Graces in her person play ;
The op’ning flow'rs bloom sweeter where she treads,
The faded blossoms lift anew their heads

The lovely feraph waves her purple wing,
Diffusing all the balmy sweets of spring;
Bestows fresh beauties on the blooming vale,
And pours fresh fragrance on the spicy gale.
Observe the manfion where Good-humour dwells;
What heart-felt joy each blifsful bosom swells !
The cheerful, happy father smiles to fee
His playful offspring prattle round his knee;
Whilst the fond partner of his heart bestows
That joy which only from Good-humour flows.


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'HE charms of fair Benevolence I fing,

For her the muse shall wake the hallow'd lyre ; Soft as the dews of heaven, and mild as spring,

Bright emanation of her heavenly Sire.

Far from the pomp of courts she loves to dwell :

Offspring of Pity, whither art thou fled ? To the dark dungeon, or the gloomy cell,

To raise some hapless mortal's drooping head!

For thou canst wipe the tear from sorrow's eye,

The joys of bright prosperity renew; To thee, angelic maid, the struggling figh,

Warm from the breast of gratitude, is due.

Ah! did the wealthy vicious few but feel

The bliss resulting from one well-spent hour;
Did they but know the tender task to heal

The foul just finking 'neath affliction's fhow'r !

But thou, Benevolence, wast form'd to fave,

To thee the art of succouring want was giv'n ;. Thy hand can snatch her from the yawning grave, And pluck the thorns that bar her way to heaven.



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ONTENTMENT, source of ev'ry earthly joy,

Without thee, what are riches, what is pow'r ? In vain shall grandeur, luxury, employ

Their pow'rs to please beyond the present hour.

'Tis not in courts that thou delight'st to dwell ;

Contentment scorns the gilded roof of state ;
But in the honest peasant's lowly cell

She lives retir'd, nor fears the storms of fate.

Parent of blooming health and gentle peace,

Thou soft companion of the guiltless breast,
When thou art abfent, all our pleasures cease,

And each low care can interrupt our reft.
To thee, fair goddess, I devote these lays,

The free effufions of a youthful heart,
That fcorns dissimulation's courtly praise,
The tongue of falsehood, and the pen of art.


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FRIENDSHIP,sweet balm toev'ry bleeding wound,

Sweet social pow'r, on earth but seldom found,



From heaven, like some phænomenon, appears,
To footh pale Grief, and stem her gushing tears.
Yet stays not here, but, like refreshing show'rs,
Where'er she goes, the healing balsam pours ;
And teaches the soft infant's lifping tongue
To bless the donor as he goes along.
Yet Flattery oft assumes fair Friendship's name,
And dwells full oft with folly, wealth, and fame;
But, when distress appears, the phantom flies,
And from the ruin'd manfion turns her eyes.

When fortune frowns, if Friendship still remains,
She sooths our woes, and mitigates our pains ;
Her bounty wafts us to fome friendly shore,
Where pleasure reigns, and misery is no more.


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IS sultry noon, and now the lab'ring fwains,

Fatigu'd with heat, forsake the fun-burnt plains, To take their cool repaft beneath a shade, Of ancient oaks and spreading elm-trees made. The panting locks lie stretch'd upon the mead, The lowing herds, grown faint, refuse to feed; For Sol's bright lustre burns the verdant fields, And ev'ry herb beneath his influence yields.


The blooming flow'rs, beneath his fervid ray,
All droop their heads and ficken at the day :
The furrow'd fields resign their golden load,
And weighty teams o'erspread the dusty road :
The fattening poultry fill the stubbled land,
The feather'd tribe their flutt'ring wings expand;
O'erjoy'd they fly to cull the scatter'd grain
By nature yielded to the rufset plain.


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NOW Midnight o'er the earth her mantle throws;

The busy world is hush'd in soft repose. Through parting trees the moon's pale luftre beams, Or faintly glimmers o'er the crystal streams. Beneath the poplar's shade, the nightingale Tunes to the night her melancholy tale, Till the shrill ky-lark, messenger of day, Trills through the dusky clouds his matin lay. 'Neath their thatch'd roofs the peaceful peasants rest; No anxious care disturbs each guiltless breaft. In this still hour the wretch, o'erwhelm’d with woe, From whose sad eyes unceasing torrents flow, Pours his afflictions to the midnight gloom, And weeps, and wishes for the filent tomb.



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