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Indulgent MEMORY wakes, and, lo, they live!
Cloth'd with far softer hues than light can give.
Thou last, best friend that heaven assigns below,


To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ;
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
Thee would the muse invoke! thee belong
The sage's precept, and the poets song.

What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals,
When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight steals!

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave reflected lustres play;
Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.

The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, 'When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship, form'd and cherish'd here! .. 16

And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems
With golden visions, and romantic dreams!

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blaz'd
The Gipsy's faggot....there we stood and gaz'd;
Gaz'd on her sun-burnt face with silent awe,
Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore;
Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred,
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;

Whose dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest shade,
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd;
And heroes fled the Sybil's mutter'd call,
Whose elfin prowess scal'd the orchard-wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And trac'd the line of life with searching view,
How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears,
To learn the colour of my future years!

Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast! This truth once know....To bless is to be blest!! We led the bending beggar on his way; (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey)

Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropt our little store,
And wept to think that little was no more,
He breath'd his prayer, Long may such goodness live!
'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Į

But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewel! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.

On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet, now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danc'd, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed,
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft, as he turn'd the green sward with his spade,
He lectur'd every youth that round him play'd;
And, calmly pointing where his father lay,
Rous'd him to rival each, the hero of his day.

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youtl: ! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of Truth; Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age belov'd, in poverty rever'd;

In Friendship's silent register ye live,

Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give,

But when the sons of peace and pleasure sleep,
When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind,
With sighs so sweet, with raptures so refin'd!

Ethereal power! whose smile, at noon of night, Recals the far-fled spirit of delight;

Instils that musing melancholy mood,

Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; Blest MEMORY, hail! Oh, grant the grateful muse, Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues,


pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain.

Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Each, as the varied avenues of sense
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
Controul the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Conven❜d the subject-spirits to his cell ;
Each at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source,
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle quick vibrations as they play.

Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. What different spheres to human bliss assign'd! What slow gradations in the scale of mind! Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought; Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought!

The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home, with many a gossip's prayer,

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