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That fires the noble-passion'd soul to shine;
In all the depths of useful lore ingage

To grace thy youth, and dignifie thine age:
Ne ween that Physis bids those paths decline,
For all those paths are mine.

Change then the straine; to hill, to valley tell, Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, fare

well.

But, ah! beware: for in the goodly chase A vile enchauntress spreds her vain delights; With guilefull semblants charming all that pass, Till she enslaved hath their feeble sprights; And sooth she is to view a ladie faire

Of beauty past compare;

And aye around her croud a gorgeous throng,
Skill'd in the mincing step, the vestment rare,
And the fine squeaking of a eunuch's song:
But sacred Science, tender Love, trew Fame,
And Honour's heaven-born flame

They know not; yet the pompous name Vertù
To the' idle pageant give: she cruel prowde
Deals magic charms emong the careless crowde,
And does them all to hideous apes transmew.
But fear not thou the minion's magic pride,
For Physis is thy guide:

Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell,

Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, fare

well.

To Cosme's polisht court thy steps I'll lead, My sister she, though eft we strangers seem; Farre otherwise of us the wise aread, But follies' feeble eyes of things misdeem. The straw-rooft cot, the pastured mead I love, The mavis-haunted grove,

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The moss-clad mountaine hoar, a rugged scene;
Along the streamlet's mazie margent rove,
That sweetly steals the broken rocks atween :
She through the manner'd cittie powres the flame
Of hie-atchieved fame,

The star-bright guerdon of the great and good;
And breathes her vivid spirit through the mind
Whose generous aimes extend to all mankind,
And vindicate the worth of noble blood;
Such as in bowre Lycean holding place
The man of Spargrove grace.

Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell, Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, farewell.

Als like a girlond her enring around

The sphere-born Muses lyring heavenly strains;
The Graces eke with bosoms all unzoned,
A trinal band that concord sweet maintains :
And who is she, that placed them atween
Seems a fourth Grace I ween?

So looks the rubie pretious rare, enchaced
In the bright crownet of a maiden queen.
Each Science too with verdant bay-leaves graced,
With honour brought from attic land again,
Adorns the radiant train.

Come then, let nobler aimes thy soul inspire;
But bring the cherub Innocence along,
And Contemplation sage, on pinion strong
Hie soaring ore yon' lamping orb of fire.-
Thus piped the Doric oate, whiles echoes shrill,
To fountaine, dale, and hill,

Resyllabling the notes, this burden tell,

Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, fare

well.

REV. R. POTTER.

CRAZY KATE.

THE Common, overgrown with fern, and rough
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd,
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf
Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense
With luxury of unexpected sweets.

There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.
A serving maid was she, and fell in love

With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves
To distant shores; and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,

Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,

And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death-
And never smiled again! and now she roams
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,

The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gown
More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,
Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier

clothes,

Though pinch'd with cold, asks never-Kate is

crazed.

COWPER.

THE HERMIT OF BEACHY HEAD.

JUST beneath the rock

Where Beachy overpeers the channel wave,
Within a cavern mined by wintry tides
Dwelt one who, long disgusted with the world
And all its ways, appear'd to suffer life
Rather than live; the soul-reviving gale,
Fanning the bean-field or the thymy heath,
Had not for many summers breathed on him;
And nothing marked to him the seasons' change,
Save that more gently rose the placid sea,
And that the birds which winter on the coast
Gave place to other migrants; save that the fog,
Hovering no more above the beetling cliffs
Betray'd not then the little careless sheep
On the brink grazing, while their headlong fall,
Near the lone hermit's flint-surrounded home,
Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heart
Was feelingly alive to all that breathed;
And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth,
By human crimes, he still acutely felt
For human misery.

Wandering o'er the beach,
He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven,
And from the changing colours of the sea,
And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs,
Or the dark porpoises that near the shore
Gambol'd and sported on the level brine
When tempests were approaching: then at night
He listen'd to the wind, and as it drove
The billows with o'erwhelming vehemence
He, starting from his rugged couch, went forth,
And, hazarding a life too valueless,

He waded through the waves, with plank or pole,
Towards where the mariner in conflict dread
Was buffeting for life the roaring surge;
And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulfs,
The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon
Show'd the dire peril. Often had he snatch'd
From the wild billows some unhappy man
Who lived to bless the hermit of the rocks.
But if his generous cares were all in vain,
And with slow swell the tide of morning bore
Some blue swoln corse to land; the pale recluse
Dug in the chalk a sepulchre-above
Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide,
And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies
For the poor helpless stranger.

One dark night
The equinoctial wind blew south by west,
Fierce on the shore;-the bellowing cliffs were
shook

E'en to their stony base, and fragments fell
Flashing and thundering on the angry flood.
At daybreak, anxious for the lonely man,
His cave the mountain shepherds visited,
Though sand and banks of weeds had choked
their way-

He was not in it; but his drowned corse
By the waves wafted near his former home
Received the rites of burial. Those who read,
Chiseled within the rock, these mournful lines,
Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve,
That dying in the cause of charity
His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed,
Had to some better region fled for ever.

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

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