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Bid amity with gentle ray,
The woes that low'r on Faction's brow display.
Shall Rome to thee a rebel prove ?
For hellish hate abandon heavenly love?
Here, gentle Concord, on each breast
Let thy spring-sweetness bland distil,
Here thy ambrosial fragrance rest,
And all mankind obey thy sovereign will.
Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens.
CONTEMPLATION, lovely fair,
Far from scenes of noise and care,
Evermore delights to dwell
In the still sequester'd cell:
Lead me then, propitious power,
To thy lonely, rural bower ;
To the silent, shady wood,
To the rivulet's dimpling flood :
And, on summer mornings, lead
To the russet heath or mead :
To the cot's plain simple door,
The ploughman's peaceful, happy floor:
Where Phyllis brings her loaded pail,
young affection lisps its tale;
Lead to dusky lanes or shades,
Where tall oaks lift high their heads;
To the seat of happiness,
To the garden's lov'd recess;
Beds with pinks and roses gay,
The pride and boast of June and May.
Contemplation, nymph serene,
Guide to lawns, or uplands green,
Or near the promontory's side-
Let me hear the roaring tide,
Hear old Ocean's wild waves roll ;
Or the sad knell slowly toll,
Or, at gloomy hour of day,
With me to the church-yard stray,
And meditate among the dead;
While the sexton plies his spade,
the time-worn stones, Or, as he turns up human bones, Think on what I soon must be, Think on vast eternity: 'Till torches dissipate the gloom, And the sable mourners come; 'Till the venerable priest, In his snowy surplice dress’d, Loudly begins the solemn lines, And “ dust to dust,” at length consigns.
Haill matron lovely, tho' demure,
Ever chaste and ever pure,
Diffuse thy balm into my breast,
Bring with thee happiness and rest :
Sooth each melancholy sigh,
Teach me to live, and teach to die!
BY WILLIAM HAMILTON, ESQ.
O voice divine, whose charmed strain.
No mortal measure may attain,
O powerful to appease the smart,
That festers in a wounded heart,
Whose mystic numbers can assuage
The bosom of tumult'ous Rage,
Can strike the dagger from Despair,
And shut the watchful eye of Care.
Oft lur'd by thee, the joy of all,
Hope comes unto the wretches call;
Exil'd by thee, and dispossest
Envy forsakes the human breast.
Full oft with thee the bard retires,
And lost to earth, to heaven aspires;
How nobly lost! with thee to rove
Thro’ the long deepning solemn grove,
Or underneath the moonlight pale,
To Silence trust some plaintive tale,
Of Nature's ills, and mankind's woes,
While kings and all the proud repose ;
Or where some holy aged oak
A stranger to the woodman's stroke;
From the high rocks aerial crown
In twisting arches bending down,
Bathes in the smooth pellucid stream,
Full oft he waits the mystic dream
Of mankind's joys right understood,
And of the all prevailing good.
Go forth invok'd, O Voice Divine ! And issue from thy sainted shrine ; Go search each solitude around, Where Contemplation may be found, Where'er apart the Goddess stands With lifted eyes and heaven-rais'd hands; If rear'd on Speculation's hill Her raptur'd soul enjoys its fill Of far-transporting Nature's scene, Air, ocean, mountain, river, plain; Or if with measur'd step she go Where Meditation spreads below, In bosom'd vale her ample store, Till weary Fancy can no more ; Or inward if she turn her gaze, And all th’ internal world surveys ; With joy complacent sees succeed