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The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,

At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass;

And, as each mingling flame increases each,

In one united ardor rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove, There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,

Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll.

For me, when I forget the darling theme,

Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray

Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams,

Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no

more,

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!

Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song,-where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting

beam

Flames on the Atlantic isles, 't is naught to me:

Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste, as in the city full;
And where he vital breathes, there must
be joy.

When even at last the solemn hour shall come,

And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,

I cheerful will obey; there, with new

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JOHN DYER.

[1700-1758.]

GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple eve, dost lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale,-
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's
flood,

Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind,

And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,

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