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And lift its bold affections high
On mighty views beyond the sky.
But traverst still, and still opprest,

never knew an hour of rest;
Some insult breaks my wise resolves;
Some new injustice, that involves
My tinder passions in a flame,
Rises my dying strength to claim.
There are, my friend, who still survey
My irritations as their prey;
Who see indignant bursts, with joy,
My vital energy destroy;
And laugh to view th' exhausting pains
I feel, in struggling with my chains.

“ He, whom the world a prophet deem,
In his own land has small esteem:"
Ah! friend, I own it with a sigh,
Nor prophet nor yet bard am I!
But still if they, as well they may,
Refuse such praise as this to pay,
The good denied, they migbt as well
Leave me without the attendant ill!

I've often heard it said, there is
In the mind's own exertions bliss;
And bliss there is; for were there not,
The bard's would be a hapless lot.
God help bim, how would he endure
The laugh of the conceited boor,
The coxcomb's sneer, the cynic's frown,
The giggle of the senseless town,
The treach'rous critic's cover'd guile,
And yellow Envy's pallid smile.
Bursting with undiminished fires,
To his own mind the Bard retires--


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Within himself the kingdom lies,
Which moves his heart and feasts his eyes--
Umbrageous groves around him spring,
Sweet birds within their coverts sing,
Streams murmur, meadows smile, fair maids
Dance or breathe love within the shades,
And harps from fairy castles sound,
Where feast and revelry abound.
Alas! too soon the vision fies';.
In distant air the music dies,
And leaves him with exhausted frame
To mourn the void of phantom Fame!
E'en now I sit with aching head,
And limbs in listless languor spread,
While trembling hand can scarce impart
The dictates of a sinking heart:
Yet thus I cheat the weary hours,
While sable Care incumbent lours;
And bring my life's o'erwhelming woes
A little nearer to the close.

The mark of calumny and wrong,
I stand Unkindness' sons among;
And they, who dare not insult show,
Where prosperous Fortune knits her brow,
Dare heap, as with impunity,
Their contumelious wrongs on me:


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the lies of blood undone ! Paternal acres, lov’d, ador’d, That could my infant days afford Such pure delights, as rise again, With rapture that amounts to pain;


Is there

. ?
Full many a year of blackest grief
I still have nurs'd the fond belief,
The time at last would come, when I,
Repaid for all my agony,
In age's hour should sit at ease
Beneath bereditary trees,
And calmly should descend to death,
Where first I drew this hapless breath!
The stormy noon, when from the wave
I scarce the batter'd bark could save,
Thus by the contrast might diffuse
O'er my life's evening brighter hues.
O fond delusion! sabler spread
The shades that thicken round my head ;
And, dark as was the storm of noon,
Still heavier may the tempest soon
The vessel's weaken'd powers assail,
And whelin me headlong in the gale:
Youth's vigour lost, Hope's anchor gone,
Then Fate itself must cry,

“ undone."
“ There is a home," my friend will say,
~ Shining beyond yon milky way,
Where, (if on earth no peace abound,)
Nor storms molest, nor cares surround:
There point thy hopes, and strive to win,
By that true monitor within,
Yon seat of rest, where seraphs blaze;
Encircled with perrennial rays!"
'Tis true, dear friend ; then I must close
This lengthen’d dreaming, feverish prose,
And you'll believe me, &c. &c.



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No. XXXV. A Second Familiar Epistle to another


“ On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend.”


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April 18, 1808.
“ COMPLAIN; for ever still complain!
O cease, my friend, the doleful strain !
No ills beyond the common fate
The future years, thou dread'st, await !
Then let your fancy dwell no more
On joys you never can restore,
Or storms, that in your fancy's eye
Are gathering in the distant sky!”

Well dost thou say : perchance no good
It is, o'er coming glooms to brood :

Then let me strive to while away
In present good the careless day,
Walk, ride, dig, saunter in the shade,
Or stray, where bards before have stray'd,
Along the meads, whose emerald green
To glow with new-sprung tints is seen;
Or sit at ease, and pour along
My unpremeditated song,
While varied visions play about
My mind in strange and motley rout.

They all are cheats, these charms of life,
For which we make such fretful strife ;



Wealth, honours, fame, and gaudy show,
Empty as bubbles that we blow;
And he who can, the easiest way,
With innocence, beguile the day,
And soonest reach life's feverish close,
Where all our passions will repose,
Is after all, in reason's eyes,
The best, the happiest, and most wise.
Why should I vex my morbid frame
With thoughts, that put me in a flame?
With anger, at the scoundrel's wiles,
Whose infamy my pen defiles?
With scorn, that breaks its just control
At the poor insults of a fool ?
With Treachery's trick, and Falsehood's vow,
And chang’d Affection’s alter'd brow?
While Competence will yet bestow
The little that we want below,
The frugal meal, the simple vest,
The roof, tho’straw-built; what's the rest?
Superfluous luxury, that ne'er
Could lull to sleep a single care!
Fortune, that jade, may on us frown,
And think to keep our spirits down;
But can she bar the morning's gate,
When she comes dancing forth in state,
And throws her orient beams around,
With dew drops spangling all the ground?
Can she suppress the gales that bring
Delightful odours on their wing ?
Can she, when Evening sails along,
Led by the nightingale's sweet song,
And murmuring sounds, and dying wind,
Soothe to deep peace the pensive mind,


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