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YE

E diftant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,

Where grateful Science ftill adores

And

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ye, that from the stately brow

Of WINDSOR's heights th' expanfe below

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Of

* King HENRY the Sixth, Founder of the

College.

Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey,

Whofe turf, whofe fhade, whofe flow'rs among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His filver-winding way.

Ah happy hills, ah pleafing fhade,

Ah fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A ftranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales, that from you blow,
A momentary blifs bestow,

As waving fresh their gladfome wing,
My weary foul they seem to footh,
And, * redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a fecond fpring.

Say,

And bees their honey redolent of spring.

Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. Syftem.

Say, Father THAMES, for thou haft feen

Full many a fprightly race

Difporting on thy margent green

The paths of pleasure trace,

Who forem

now delight to cleave

With pliant arm thy glaffy wave ?

The captive linnet which enthrall P

What idle progeny fucceed

To chafe the rolling circle's fpeed,

Or urge the flying ball?

While fome, on earnest business bent,

Their murm'ring labours ply

'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint

To fweeten liberty:

Some

Some bold adventurers difdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare defcry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And fnatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Lefs pleasing when poffeft;

The tear forgot as foon as shed,
The funfhine of the breast:

Theirs buxom health of rofy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever-new,

And lively chear of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas,

Alas, regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!

No fense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond-to-day;

Yet fee how all around 'em wait

The Minifters of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, fhew them where in ambush stand To feize their prey the murth'rous band! Ah, tell them, they are men!

Thefe fhall the fury Paffions tear,
The vultures of the mind,

Difdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that fculks behind;

Or pineing Love shall waste their youth.
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That

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