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Like thy own solemn springs,
O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair’d sun
With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat,
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid compos’d,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding-star arising shows
The fragrant hours, and elves
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with
sedge, And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Whose walls more awful nod
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
That from the mountain's side
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
Thy dewy fingers draw
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
While Summer loves to sport
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Thy gentlest influence own,
BY PETER PINDAR.
. CHLOE, prithee, why so coy?
Where's the danger of a kiss ? Loaded are thy lips with joy;
Wherefore then deny the bliss ?
Budding, if they blush with pleasures,
Freely, freely. let me take 'em :
NATURE was a fool to make 'em.
VANITY OF FAME,
BY THE REV. H. MOORE.
As vapours from the marsh's miry bed
Then melting down in rain
The world's fair peace confound,
Where is each boasted Favourite of Fame,
Whose wide-expanded name