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« To arts like these devote thy tuneful toil,
• And meet its fair reward in D'ARCY's smile."


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“ 'Tis he, my Son, alone. shall chear
“ Thy sickning soul; at that sad hour,
« When o'er a much-lov'd Parent's bier,

Thy duteous Sorrows shower : “ At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline; “ When pining Care leads on her pallid train, < And sees thee, like the weak, and widow'd Vine, “ Winding thy blasted tendrills o'er the plain. « At that fad hour shall D'ARCY lend his aid, « And raise with Friendship’s arm thy drooping head.


« This fragrant wreath, the Muses meed,
« That bloom'd those vocal shades among,
“ Where never Flatt'ry dar'd to tread,
• Or Interest's servile throng;

« Receive,

“ Receive, my favor'd Son, at my command,
“ And keep, with facred care, for D'ARCY's brow :
“ Tell him, 'twas wove by my immortal hand,
« I breath'd on every power a purer glow;
“ Say, for thy fake, I send the gift divine
“ To him, who calls thee HIS, yet makes thee MINE.”










H! cease this kind persuasive strain,

Which, when it flows from Friendship's tongue, However weak, however vain, O’erpowers beyond the Siren's song: Leave me, my friend, indulgent go, And let me muse upon my woe.


Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these pensive sweets ?
Can Mufick's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, supply
A charm fo suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill

Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill,
While thro' the west, where sinks the crimson Day,
Meek Twilight slowly fails, and waves her banners grey?


Say, from Afflictions various source
Do none but turbid waters Aow?
And cannot Fancy clear their course?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.
Say, mid that grove, in love-lorn state,
When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all, that meets the shepherd's ear,
Inspir’d by anguish, and despair ?


Ah no, fair Fancy rules the Song :
She swells her throat; she guides her tongue;
She bids the waving Aspin-spray
Quiver in Cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed Osiers bow,

And rustle round the lake below,
To suit the tenor of her gurgling fighs,
And sooth her throbbing breast with folemn sympathies.


To thee, whofe young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares;
Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears;
To thee yon Abbey dank, and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mould'ring stone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.
Yet Some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander thro' the cloysters drear,


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