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By all the honey'd store

On Hybla's thymy shore,

By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;
By her whose love-lorn woe
In evening musings slow

Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

By old Cephisus deep,

Who spread his wavy sweep

In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat ; On whose enamell'd side,

When holy Freedom died,

No equal haunt allured thy future feet :

O sister meek of Truth,

To my admiring youth

Thy sober aid and native charms infuse !
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,

Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.

While Rome could none esteem

But Virtue's patriot theme,

You loved her hills, and led her laureat band; But stay'd to sing alone

To one distinguish'd throne;

And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land,

No more, in hall or bower,

The Passions own thy power;

Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean :
For thou hast left her shrine;
Nor olive more, nor vine,

Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

Though taste, though genius, bless
To some divine excess,

Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply

May court, may charm our eye;

Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul !

Of these let others ask

To aid some mighty task;

I only seek to find thy temperate vale;
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,

And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.



W. Collins

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

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O say what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy;

What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy :
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

C. Cibber



'Twas on a lofty vase's side,

Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared:
The fair round face, the snowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,

Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes--
She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple, to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw

With many an ardent wish

She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize--
What female heart can gold despise?
What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between-
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled-
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery God
Some speedy aid to send :-
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard-
A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold:

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glisters, gold!

T. Gray



Timely blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,

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Pleasing, without skill to please ;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,

Yet too innocent to blush;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat;
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May
Flitting to each bloomy spray;
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest :-
This thy present happy lot
This, in time will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy Time prepares;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.

A. Philips



When Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free

The dread and envy of them all.

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