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A Muse, unskilled in venal praise,
Unstained with flattery's art;
Who loves simplicity of lays
Breathed ardent from the heart;
While gratitude and joy inspire,
Resumes the long unpractised lyre,
To hail, OH-, thy natal morn.
No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves,
But twines with oak the laurel leaves,
Thy cradle to adorn.

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Swift to reward a parent's fears,
A parent's hopes to crown,
Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,
That rear him to renown;
When in his finished form and face
Admiring multitudes shall trace
Each patrimonial charm combined,
The courteous yet majestic mien,
The liberal smile, the look serene,
The great and gentle mind.
Yet though thou draw a nation's eyes,
And win a nation's love,

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Let not thy towering mind despise The village and the grove. No slander there shall wound thy fame, No ruffian take his deadly aim, No rival weave the secret snare : For innocence, with angel smile, Simplicity, that knows no guile, And love and peace are there. When winds the mountain oak assail, And lay its glories waste, Content may slumber in the vale, Unconscious of the blast. Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home, It hopes in time to roam no more : The mariner, not vainly brave, Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest at last on shore. Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe, How vain your mask of state! The good alone have joy sincere, The good alone are great : Great, when, amid the vale of peace, They bid the plaint of sorrow cease, And hear the voice of artless praise ; As when along the trophied plain Sublime they lead the victor train, While shouting nations gaze.





How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth, Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,

That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,

Than some more timely happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Hea


All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As even in my great Task-Master's eye.


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O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain.
Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.



Thy memory, as a spell

of love, comes o'er the mind;
As dew upon the purple bell;

As perfume on the wind;
As music on the sea;

As sunshine on the river;
So hath it always been to me,
So shall it be forever.





“Rather than have one bliss forgot,
Be all my pains remembered 100."


AND wouldst thou advise me to mix with the crowd,

And strive to efface the remembrance of years ; When, though mists and misfortune loo often might

shroud, One smile hath repaid me for long hours of tears? And say'st thou that memory only can feed

The fever that preys on the desolate heart ? Oh! thou knowest not, unless thou hast felt it in

deed, What joy the remembrance of joy can impart ! There are things that are past, which I would not

forget, For the brightest of pleasures that earth can

now give; Their bliss had a mixture of sorrow, and yet

Like stars in the night of my bosom they live. As on scenes we have passed, when by distance

made soft, We gaze the more fondly the further we go, So, when years of our prime have gone over, how

oft We turn with delight to past pleasure and woe.

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