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What falls so sweet on summer flow'rs
What bids despair her arrows hide?
Yet not that Pity form’d to give
which bids affliction live; Not Pity that can, taunting show Superior pride, untouch'd by woe :
Not Pity that, with haughty smile,
ON A TEAR.
Oh! that the chemists magic art
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
Benign, restorer of the soul!
The sage's and the poet's theme,
That very law * which moulds a tear,
* The law of gravitation.
I love the man, whose giant soul
Spurns at opinions tyrant sway, To no vile despot yields his hearts Disdaining Fashion's proud controul,
He turns from Folly's glittering way, Dares nobly trample on the pride of Art.
War's bloody fiends, with wrathful ire,
Bid o'er the fields their legions fly,
Can scan their souls with Reason's eye, Is to Britannia's Bard a bosom friend.
Stern Winter triumphs in the sky,
Sad Nature's woeful face deforms,
When sweep around the raging storms, And with undaunted soul can laugh and sing.
He dreads no thunders of the night,
When roaming o'er the pathless waste,
When toiling on the mountain'd wave;
Whilst Envy speeds with hellish haste,
He nor vile Wealth's bewitching glare,
Nor titles high that Pride bestows,
To shake his bosom's calm repose,
When, felt in flames of sore disease,
Death's dagger'd throngs invade his heart He still unconquer'd meets the shock; Firm as a mountain, still at ease,
He smiles unmov'd, por feels the dart, But stands a champion bold on Heav'ns eternal