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STANZAS.

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In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity :
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue the
From budding at the prime.

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Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy !
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy ?

To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

EPISTLES.

Among the rest a shepherd (though but young
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fill his quill.

Britannia's Pastorals.-BROWNE.

EPISTLES.

1

TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.

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SWEET are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;
Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view
A fate more pleasing, a delight more true
Than that in which the brother poets joy'd,
Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd
To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.
The thought of this great partnership diffuses
Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling
Of all that's high, and great, and good, and

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Too partial friend ! fain would I follow thee
Past each horizon of fine poesy ;
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note
As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float
'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,
Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted :
But 'tis impossible; far different cares
Beckon me sternly from soft “ Lydian airs,”

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