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The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
BY THE SAME.
SWEET poet of the woods-a long adieu!
ODE TO INNOCENCE.
BY JOHN OGILVIE, D. D.
"TWAS when the slow declining ray
When, by a murmuring rill reclined,
Sat rapt in thought a wandering swain; Calm peace composed his musing mind: And thus he raised the flowing strain:
Hail, Innocence! celestial maid! What joys thy blushing charms reveal! Sweet as the arbour's cooling shade, And milder than the vernal gale.
"On thee attends a radiant quire,
"O sent from heaven to haunt the grove, Where squint-eyed Envy ne'er can come ; Nor pines the cheek with luckless love,
Nor anguish chills the living bloom;
"But spotless Beauty, robed in white, Sits on yon moss-green hill reclined; Serene as heaven's unsullied light,
And pure as Delia's gentle mind.
"Grant, heavenly Power! thy peaceful sway May still my ruder thoughts control;
Thy hand to point my dubious way,
"Far in the shady sweet retreat
Let thought beguile the lingering hour; Let quiet court the mossy seat,
And twining olives form the bower.
"Let dove-eyed Peace her wreath bestow, And oft sit listening in the dale;
While night's sweet warbler from the bough Tells to the grove her plaintive tale.
"Soft as in Delia's snowy breast,
And all its blissful dreams be love."
VIRTUE AND ORNAMENT.
TO THE LADIES.
BY DR. FORDYCE.
THE diamond's and the ruby's rays
But the sweet tear in Pity's eye
Transcends the diamond's brightest beams;
And the soft blush of Modesty
More precious than the ruby seems.
The glowing gem, the sparkling stone,
But Truth and Innocence alone
Can still engage the good and wise.
No glittering ornament or show
Delight that ever shall remain.
Behold, ye fair, your lovely Queen!
VIRTUE AND PLEASURE.
BY THE SAME.
INFORM me, VIRTUE! is it true?
Does Pleasure really dwell with you?
The sons of sense say, No.
They say, that all who mind your rules Are gloomy superstitious fools,
And every joy forego.
They say, and openly maintain,
That your rewards are care and pain;
And while on heaven you preach,
At best 'tis but a phantom fair,
The soul is mortal, melts in air,
And heaven shall never reach.
O tell me, PLEASURE! what you feel; Speak honestly, nor aught conceal : The matter is of weight.