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In Pleasure's ray see Nature shine, How dull, alas ! at Wisdom's shrine !

“'Tis Folly to be wise :" Collusive term, poor vain pretence, Enjoyment sure is real Sense

In philosophic eyes.

I love the carol of the hound,
Enraptur'd on the living ground,

In dashing ecstasy;
I love the awkward courser's stride,
The courser that has been well tried,

And with him eager fly.

And

yes, I love, ye sneering wise . Fair Honour, spurning still at lies,

As courting Liberty;
Still hand in hand great Nature goes,
With joys to honour never foes,

And all those joys are free.

And welcome thrice to British land,
From Italy's voluptuous strand,

Ye destin'd men of art;
Breathe on the thrilling meaning sound,
Each
grace

shall still be faithful found, At your admirer's heart.

Avert, ye gods! that curse of fools,
The pride of theoretic rules;

That dupery of sense:
I ne'er refuse the proffer'd joy,
With every good—that can annoy-

Most easily dispense.

I catch each rapture as it flies,
Each happy loss a gain supplies,

And boon still follows boon:
The smile of beauty gilds my day,
Regardless of her frowns I stray ;-

Thus thro' my hours I run!

But let me not for idle rhyme
Neglect, ungrateful, good old Time:

Dear watch I thou art obey'd 'Twas thus the Man of Pleasure spoke, His jovial step then careless took

To Celia-or her maid.

ODE VII.

RETIREMENT.

BY JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D.

When in the crimson cloud of Even

The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,

Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive Youth of placid mien,

Indulged this tender theme.

Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd

High o'er the glimmering dale; Ye woods, along whose windings wild

Murmurs the solemn gale ; Where Melancholy strays forlorn,

And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn

Gleams on the western deep :

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly,

Deep in your most sequester'd bower

Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,

Leans on her ivy'd shrine.

How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair!

Thy heavenly smile how win!
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care

And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move

Serene, on silent wing!

Oft let remembrance sooth his mind

With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclin'd

He fram'd his infant lays;
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarm’d,
Nor Envy with malignant glare

His simple youth had harm’d.

'Twas then, O Solitude, to thee

His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,

Devoted to the shade.
Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy

In stormy paths to roam,

Remote from all congenial joy !

O take the wanderer home.

Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,

Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine

Waves o’er the gloomy stream, Whence the scar'd owl on pinions grey

Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away

To more profound repose.

O while to thee the woodland pours

Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy from the bank of flowers

The zephyr breathes along ;
Let no rude sound invade from far,

No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car,

Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim through the glade

Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,

And listen to his lore;
For he of joys divine shall tell

That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell

That chains this heart below.

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