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And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
SONG ON PEACE°
AIR-“MY FOND SHEPHERDS OF LATE"
No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue; O Happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu !
I have sought thee in splendor and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope
The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope,
And the summit of all our desires.
Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks in it meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.
ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE
Suns that set, átryd moons that wane,
Stars that orient day subdues,
EPITAPH ON JOHNSON
HERE Johnson lies, a sage by all allowed,
THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS°
Two nymphs,o both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possessed,
Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete
Had both alike been mild;
Frowned oftener than she smiled;
And in her humor, when she frowned,
Would raise her voice, and roar, And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.
The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,
And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in song
The nymphs referred the cause,
And gave misplaced applause.
They gentle called, and kind and soft,
The flippant and the scold,
And though she changed her mood so oft,
That failing left untold.
No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,
Or so resolved to err,
They lavished all on her.
Then thus the god, whom fondly they
Their great Inspirer call,
To reprimand them all.
“Since thus ye have combined,” he said,
“My favorite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid,
With June's undoubted right,
“ The Minx shall, for your folly's sake,
Still prove herself a shrew,
And pinch your noses blue.”
SURVIVOR sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren!
- at my birth (Since which I number threescore winters past) A shattered veteran, hollow-trunked perhaps,
As now, and with excoriate forks deform,
It seems idolatry with some excuse,
Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloined The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 20 Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thine embryo vastness, at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellowed the soil Designed thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.
So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search