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That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with shining face

Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed

And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,

Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:

Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,

And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath

Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.

This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not even critics criticize; that holds

Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;

What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,

To peep at such a world; to see the stir

Of the great Babel, and not feel the

crowd;

To hear the roar she sends through

all her gates

At a safe distance, where the dying sound

Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured

ear.

Thus sitting, and surveying thus at

ease

The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced

To some secure and more than mortal height,

That liberates and exempts me from them all.

It turns submitted to my view, turns round

With all its generations; I behold

Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride

And avarice, that make man a wolf to man;

Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,

By which he speaks the language of his heart,

And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.

He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flower to flower, so he from land to land;

The manners, customs, policy, of all Pay contribution to the store he gleans;

He sucks intelligence in every clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research

At his return,- -a rich repast for me. He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,

Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes

Discover countries, with a kindred

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dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun

The tumult, and am still. The sound A prisoner in the yet undawning

of war

east,

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Till the street rings; no stationary | That crawls at evening in the public

steeds

path;

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he that has humanity, fore

warned,

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tread aside, and let the reptile live.

The

But here the needle plies its busy task,

The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,

Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,

Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves,

and sprigs,

And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,

Follow the nimble finger of the fair; A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers, that blow

With most success when all besides decay.

The poet's or historian's page by

one

creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,

And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,

A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,

The chamber, or refectory, may die:
A necessary act incurs no blame.
Not so when, held within their proper
bounds,

And guiltless of offence, they range

the air

Or take their pastime in the spacious field.

There they are privileged; and he that hunts

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ALEXANDER Selkirk.

I AM monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech;
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see,
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man. Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth. Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!

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The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign:
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limb thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest,
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,

In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe! My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!

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