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ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.

Bright eye of pensive eve! resplendent orb
That o'er the misty mountains shinest clear,
Like a rich gem

Upon an Ethiop's brow;

Thy lamp serene my now benighted steps
Directs, to that bless'd spot where dwells my fair,
Twin rivals who can boast

More pure, more bright than thee.

For not thy lovely sight, that kindly cheers
The sullen frown of unpropitious night,
Is half so sweet as truth,

That beams in beauty's eyes.

Not all the little waking elves, that rise
From out their noisy bow'rs of velvet buds,
Where they had slept the day,

To dance thy rays beneath,

Feel such delight as does this breast, when thou, With radiant lustre show'st the happy hour, That leads from scenes of care

To still domestic bliss.

ODE TO LEVEN-WATER.

On Leven's banks, while free to rove;
And tune the rural pipe to love;
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain,

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,

With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide ;

The ruthless pike, intent on waf
The silver eel, and motled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make;
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine;
And edges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chaunting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale.
And ancient Faith, that knows no guile,
And Industry embrown'd with toil,
And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The blessing they enjoy to guard.

THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

It grew and it flourish'd for many an age,
And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage,

But when its strong branches were bent with the

blast,

It struck its roots deeper, and flourish'd more fast.

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Its head tower'd high, and its branches spread round,

For its roots were struck deep, and its heart it was sound;

The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd, And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade.

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear, Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear,

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood.

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk, It struck in its mouths, and its juices it drunk; The branches grew sickly depriv'd of their food, And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood.

The foresters saw and they gather❜d around, Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound;

They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread, But the ivy they spar'd on its vitals that fed.

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd, Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade; Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has receiv'd its incurable wound, They have loosen'd the roots, though the heart may be sound;

What the travellers at distance green flourishing

see,

Are the leaves of the ivy that ruin'd the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood,
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

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O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Tho' bush or flowret never grow
My dark, unwarming shade below;
Nor Summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murm'ring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

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