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Thus, when life hath stol'n away,

And the wintry night is near ;
Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray,

Age's closing evening cheer.

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If those who live in shepherd's bower

Press not the rich and stately bed ;
The new-mown hay and breathing flower

A softer couch beneath them spread.

If those who sit at shepherd's board,

Soothe not their taste by wanton art 3 They take what nature's gifts afford,

And take it with a cheerful heart.

If those who drain the shepherd's bowl,

No high and sparkling wines can boast; With wholesome cups they cheer the soul,

And crown them with the village-toast.

If those who join in shepherd's sport,

Gay dancing on the daisied ground,
Have not the splendour of a court ;

Yet love adorns the merry round.

* In the masque of Alfred.'

Vol. II:


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'Tis not wealth, it is not birth,

Can value to the soul convey ; Minds possess superior worth,

Which chance nor gives, nor takes away.

Like the sun true merit shows;

By nature warm, by nature bright ; . With inbred flames he nobly glows,

Nor needs the aid of borrow'd light.



Tell me, on what holy ground
May domestic Peace be found ?
Halcyon-daughter of the skies !
Far on fearful wing she flies
From the tyrant's scepter'd state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.

In a cottag'd vale she dwells,
List’ning to the Sabbath-bells,
While all around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien.

* In the comic opera of Love in a Village."

Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow, smiling through her tears ;
And, mindful of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy!



The rose had been wash’d, just wash'd by a shower,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd ;
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cups were all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it


I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd; And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !

I snap'd it; it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of winning, and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; And the tear that is wip'd with a tender address,

May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.




When my hand thus I proffer, your own 0 deny not,

Nor offer it cold, nor a finger extend ;
It freezes my blood when I find a man shy on't,
'Tis delightful when shook with the warmth of a friend.
For the hand of the heart is the index, declaring

If well or if ill, how its master will stand ;
I heed not the tongue, of its friendship that's

I judge of a friend by the shake of his hand.

Yet 'tis not with each new-hatch'd comrade,' I'd shake

me, Be mine the tried friend, whose warm heart shall

expand, Who in wealth or in sorrow will never forsake me, And the truth of whose heart I shall feel in his hand.

For the hand, &c.

Oh! I hate for to see it abus'd at election,

In a canvas of votes from each holder of land ;
The purpose when gain'd, you shall meet with rejection,
Seven years it will be ere again you've his hand.

For the hand, &c.


Then for friends, and friends only, this token reserving,

For them be it ever at will to command ;

But let each be thy friend, who at all is deserving,
And give him thy heart with a shake of the hand.
For the hand of the heart is the index, declaring

If well or if ill, how its master will stand :
I heed not the tongue, of its friendship that's

I judge of a friend by the shake of his hand.



While happy in my native land,

I boast my country's charter ;
I'll never basely lend my hand,

Her liberties to barter.
The noble mind is not at all

By poverty degraded;
'Tis guilt alone can make us fall :

And well I am persuaded,
Each free-born Briton's song should be,

Or give me death or liberty.

Though small the power which Fortune grants,

And few the gifts she sends us ;
The lordly hireling often wants

That freedom which defends us.
By law secur’d from lawless strife,

Our house is our castellum ;
Thus bless’d with all that's dear in life,
For lucre shall we sell 'em ?

Briton's song
Or give me death or liberty.

No :-every

shall be,

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