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HAIL, thou source of thought divine!
Awful Solitude, be mine:
Let me from the world secluded,
By no glitt'ring joys deluded,
Earthly pleasures all despise,
Hoping for eternal joys.

Let me wander o'er thy plains,
Where perpetual silence reigns;
Whilst I, at the close of even,
View the blue bespangled heaven;
Let me then my God adore,
Mark his works and own his pow'r.

When the blushing morn has spread
Dewy fragrance o'er the mead;
When the newly risen sun

Has his daily task begun ;
Teach me then, in tuneful lays,
To chaunt my great Creator's praise.

When my peaceful life is spent,
Free from care and discontent,
Let me, O my God! when thou
Call'st me from this world below,
With hope of heav'nly pleasures blest,
In gentle slumbers sink to rest.

Vocal Magazine.


WHEN first I wak'd to life's unfolding day,

Delight's young dimpled handmaids rock'd my bed, Hope kiss'd my eyelids in the sun's bright ray, And fancy twin'd white blossoms round my head.

A father's love, a mother's trembling care,
Spread fairy visions round my trusting youth,
While royal lovers kneel❜d to call me fair,

And murmur'd oaths of unforsaken truth:

No cares could cloud, no passions could destroy,
The shining softness of those halcyon hours-
Where'er I turn'd, where'er I look'd, was joy,

A heaven of sunshine, and an earth of flowers.

But now the fiend shrieks loud, who rules the storm, And strides in thunder o'er the 'frighted sphere, Hope, as she listens, veils her flying form,

And fancy lingers-but to drink a tear!



WITH sacred awe, with kind concern,
We view the spot where Yorrick lies:
Here friendship still shall visit Sterne,
And tears shall fill affection's eyes.

Silent upon thy grave we stand,

And muse upon the dust beneathThe fairest flow'r from nature's hand, Now with'ring in the shade of death.

When ev'ning dews thy turf so green,
Humanity, with gentle tread, ta
And bright-ey'd genius, oft are seen
Weeping beside thy earthy bed.

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Those dear companions of thy way,
Although from death they could not save,
Yet here their vows they duly pay,
And bid remembrance haunt thy grave.

Maria's shade, with pious care,

By Cynthia's light shall hither come, And watch the spring, with fingers fair Decking with flow'rs thy simple tomb.

While here, with pilgrim's step, they stray
Around thy place of endless rest,
We check the fond complaint, and say,
"Sure thou art number'd with the blest."



IN woods no more the feather'd throng
Pour native music on the gale;
And, heard you not the harvest song?
Its last notes linger in the vale.

Where are the walks that blush'd with flow'rs?
And where the western breeze that breath'd
Its pilfer'd sweets to scent the bow'rs,

Which Peace and calm Contentment wreath'd?

Since now no fragrant blossoms blow,
And desolation sweeps the ground,
Come, Winter! teach me how to draw
A moral from the ruins round.

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The sober thought, to virtue dear,
Thy dreary walks shall furnish still;
Still sweetly, on my pensive ear,

Shall fall the murmurs of the rill.

Oft through yon desolated grove,
Where many a faded flow'ret lies!
At evening's shadowy hour I'll rove,
Regardless of the frowning skies.

And oft I'll to the lonely dell,
Or to the russet heath repair,
To hear the distant village-bell
Sweet vibrate on th' expanse of air.

If, on the wild wing of the blast,
The demon of destruction fly;
May then some rush-light, o'er the waste,
With friendly beams, direct the eye.

Adieu! ye glitt'ring scenes, adieu!

That stole my heart from peace and truth; That promis'd pleasure, while you threw Illusive splendour o'er my youth!

Time, to all pictur'd bliss a foe,

Proclaims, as through its wastes we range,
That all our joy is absent woe,
And all our life progressive change!
Sanderson's Original Poems.


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