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JOHN DYER.

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And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood:
His sides are clothed with waving

wood,

And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both a safety from the wind
In mutual dependence find.

'T is now the raven's bleak abode;
"T is now the apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary mouldered wall.
Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low
And level lays the lofty brow, -
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

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And see the rivers how they run, Through woods and meads, in shade and

sun,

Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,-
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought:
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,

55

When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow;
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadow
eye!

cross the

A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.

O, may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, even now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who
will;
Search for Peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search; she is not there!
In vain you search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every | So just, the life itself was there.
No flattery with his colors laid,
To bloom restored the faded maid;
He gave each muscle all its strength,
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length.
His honest pencil touched with truth,
And marked the date of age and youth.
He lost his friends, his practice failed;
Truth should not always be revealed;
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.
Two bustos, fraught with every grace,
A Venus' and Apollo's face,
He placed in view; resolved to please,
Whoever sat, he drew from these,
From these corrected every feature,
And spirited each awkward creature.

All things were set; the hour was

come,

wind,

No tempest can equal the storm in my mind;

Though loudest of thunders on louder

waves roar,

That's naething like leaving my love on

the shore.

To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained,

But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained:

And beauty and love's the reward of the brave;

And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my

excuse;

Since honor commands me, how can I refuse?

Without it I ne'er can have merit for
thee,

And losing thy favor I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honor and
fame,

And if I should chance to come glorious
hame,

I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,

And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber

no more.

JOHN GAY.

[1688-1732.]

THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY
AND EVERYBODY.

LEST men suspect your tale untrue,
Keep probability in view.
The traveller, leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds.
Who with his tongue hath armies routed
Makes even his real courage doubted:
But flattery never seems absurd ;
The flattered always takes your word:
Impossibilities seem just;
They take the strongest praise on trust.
Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.

So very like a painter drew, That every eye the picture knew; He hit complexion, feature, air,

His pallet ready o'er his thumb.
My lord appeared; and seated right
In proper attitude and light,
The painter looked, he sketched the
piece,

Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece,
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air;
"Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there
Might well a Raphael's hand require,
To give them all their native fire;
The features fraught with sense and
wit,

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"Oh! pardon me," the artist cried, "In this the painters must decide. The piece even common eyes must strike, I warrant it extremely like."

My lord examined it anew;
No looking-glass seemed half so true.

A lady came; with borrowed grace
He from his Venus formed her face.
Her lover praised the painter's art;
So like the picture in his heart!
To every age some charm he lent;
Even beauties were almost content.
Through all the town his art they praised;
His custom grew, his price was raised.
Had he the real likeness shown,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.

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Was naught around but images of rest: Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;

And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest,

From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,

Where never yet was creeping cr

ture seen.

Joined to the prattle of the purling

rills,

Were heard the lowing herds along the

vale,

And flocks loud bleating from the dis

tant hills,

Meantime unnumbered glittering

But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest

streamlets played,

And hurled everywhere their waters Was far, far off expelled from this delisheen ;

cious nest.

That, as they bickered through the sunny glade,

Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

And vacant shepherds piping in the

dale;

And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,

Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; Yet all these sounds yblent inclinéd all to sleep.

Full in the passage of the vale above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood,
Where naught but shadowy forms was
seen to move,

As Idlesse fancied in her dreamy mood:
And up the hills, on either side, a
wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to
and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the
blood;

And where this valley winded out be-
low,
The murmuring main was heard, and
scarcely heard, to flow.

And of gay castles in the clouds that

pass,

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, Of dreams that wave before the halfshut eye:

Forever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witchingly

Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,

And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh;

A HYMN.

THESE, as they change, Almighty Fa

ther, these

Are

but the varied God. The rolling

year

Is full of thee.
spring

Forth in the pleasing

Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and

love.

Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ;

Echo the mountains round; the forest

smiles;

And

Then comes thy glory in the summer every sense, and every heart, is joy.

months,

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