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Ever gentle and serene,
Mild good nature, art thou seen.
What with thee can I compare?
Who thy beauties can declare?
Inspir'd by thee the plainest face
Beams with every soften'd grace.
When to others good befal,
Thou dost mix thy joy with all;
And with tender pity melt
For the woes by others felt:
Smiling sweetness dost thou show,
Best of virtues here below.
Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven,
The noble mind's delight and pride,
To men and angels only given,
To all the lower world deny'd,
While love, unknown among the blest, Parent of thousand wild desires, The savage and the human breast Torments alike with raging fires.
With bright, but oft distructive gleam,
Alike o'er all his lightnings fly;
Thy lambent glories only beam
Around the fav'rites of the sky.
Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys
On fools and villains ne'er descend;
In vain for thee the tyrant sighs,
And hugs a flatterer for a friend.
Directress of the brave and just.
O guide us thro' Life's darksome way! And let the tortures of distrust
On selfish bosoms only prey.
Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow, When souls to peaceful climes remove;
What rais'd our virtue here below,
Shall aid our happiness above.
SENT TO A LADY AT A BALL.
Go, Muse, and strike the raptur'd lyre,
'Midst yonder groupe of festive youth,
Nor wear thou Fiction's gay attire,
But the white robe of modest Truth. Among the fair, who shall thy strain attend, Thou shalt discriminate a polish'd friend.
Tell her, that if her lovely face,
Nor beauty, nor expression knew,
Nor her fair form a native grace,
Allotted only to a few;
Still would she friendship ever faithful find,
From all who own the higher worth of mind.
While sad suspense and chill delay
Bereave my wounded soul of rest,
New hopes, new fears, from day to day,
By turns assail my lab'ring breast.
My heart, which ardent love consumes,
Throbs with each agonizing thought
So flutters with entangled plumes,
The lark in wily meshes caught.
There she, with unavailing strain,
Pours thro' the night her warbled grief;
The gloom retires, but not her pain,
The dawn appears, but not relief.
Two younglings wait the parent bird,
Their thrilling sorrows to appease :
She comes-ah! no: the sound they heard
Was but a whisper of the breeze,
Why, O why this perturbation?
Why this tumult in my breast?
Why this unknown sweet sensation,
Charming, tho' it chases rest?
Why this tender soft confusion?
Why this downcast timid eye?
O'er my cheeks why this suffusion?
Why the unconscious frequent sigh?
Why this trembling fond emotion?
Why the pulse's maddening play?
Thrilling bosom,-soft commotion,
Restless night and listless day!
Why do crowds no longer please me?
Why so dear the lonely grove?
Why delight in thoughts that teaze me?
Tell me Nancy--is this LOVE?