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Thy love unbounded, as the boundless day,

Glows with the warmth of summer's noontide ray;
From thy kind tongue the sweetest honey flows,
To soothe the anguish of our bitterest woes.
When the dread king of terrors' ruthless dart,
Arrests a fond companion's bleeding heart,
And rifles youth of all his vernal bloom,
And lays the aged in the mouldering tomb;
When weeping virgins mourn a tender mate,
The hapless victim of a cruel fate;

When youthful lovers o'er their fair one's grave,
The funeral turf with briny sorrows lave;

When Hope no longer cheers their streaming eyes,
And drear despair's impervious clouds arise;

Then, Sensibility, thy power is known,

Thou never leav'st the wretch to weep alone.
With mild Persuasion's gently pleasing strain,
You love to ease his bosom-rending pain,

And, while the mourner lends a patient ear,
You answer sigh for sigh, and tear for tear;

Till, by the magick sympathy of woe,

His wounds are healed, his sorrows cease to flow!

Hail, Sensibility! thou soul of love,

'Tis thine the various scenes of bliss to prove ;

The tear, we shed upon another's grief,!

The woes, we suffer for our friend's relief,

Afford more pleasure to the feeling heart,
Than all the pomp and pride of wealth impart !
The silken sons of luxury and ease,

With vain magnificence, the crowd may please;
The chief, victorious, quits the embattled ground,
The blood-stained laurels round his temples bound;

The marble bust may tell to future age,

Some glorious villain on the present stage!
But what are riches, but an empty name?
And what is glory, but the toy of fame?
What is the mighty laurel, gained in fight?
To this the private murderer has a right.
Envy, the brightest character may rust;
The loftiest monuments are laid in dust;
Lo, brazen statues moulder and decay,

And hoary Time sweeps all the world away!
Then, where is glory, where the proud and great?
Where is the tyrant with his pomp and state?
Beggars and kings are destined to one grave;
Death deals alike to monarch and to slave.
Then learn, O man, to traverse out the year
Of fleeting life, which Heaven has lent thee here.
Be prompt to offer, with a kind relief,

The friendly pillow for the sons of grief.

Let feeling sympathy for every woe,
Which groaning mortals suffer here below,
Let Sensibility with heavenly fire,

With generous charity, thy soul inspire;

That, when pale Death this dreary scene shall close,
Millions may shout thee from this world of woes.
This is the noblest monument of praise,
Which human excellence on earth can raise ;
This is the trophy, which with power sublime
Shall baffle all the wrath of hoary time.
But why, my muse, dost thou with daring wing,
Attempt so great, so bold a theme to sing?
Lo! in Amelia's breast the charms you tell
In sweet complacence and perfection dwell;

Maria, too, the feeling throb has known;
There Sensibility erects her throne.

Though beauty deck the fair external form
With all the elegance of every charm ;
Though sense and virtue in the soul combine,
And like the stars in bright resplendence shine;
If Sensibility, that lovely guest,

Should prove a stranger to the virgin breast,
Beauty and sense and virtue must appear
But sounding names, which only fops revere;
Like some fair image, which the mimick strife
Of Sculpture's hand has made resembling life,
Which wants that nervous vigour to acquire,
That spreads through every limb the vital fire;
But Sensibility, the queen of grace,
Soft, as Amelia's sweetly blooming face,
From every stain the heavy soul refines,
And with a smile in every feature shines;
To every charm a milder beauty lends,
The fairest form with fairer tints amends;
A gentle mildness to the breast imparts,
Attracts, enchants and captivates our hearts;
Sprightly and gay as love, as pure as truth,
The soul of beauty, and the pride of youth.

A PASTORAL.

[Written April 10, 1790.]

THE shades of night with sleep had fled away; Heaven's rising scale now flamed with new-born day; Now fragrant roses plumed the crest of dawn,

And tears of joy arrayed the smiling lawn;

The early villagers had left their beds,

And with their flocks had whitened all the meads.

Beneath the embowering covert of a grove, Whose blooming bosom courts the smiles of love, Melodious songsters tuned their warbling strains, And charmed the satyrs and admiring swains. So soft their notes, that Echo silent hung, And Zephyr ceased to breathe, to hear the song; Shepherds, to join the tuneful war, forsook Their native shade and left their peaceful crook; The choral song awaked each rising day, And larks forgot to sing their matin lay.

Long had young Corydon, outvied by none, The ivy wreath from all his rivals won; Till, from a mountain's side, whose lofty brow Whitens with pride, and spurns the plains below, Young Damon, versed in polished numbers, came, And claimed the laurel of Aonian fame.

No sooner morn had cheered the skies with light,

And modest fields blushed from the embrace of night, Than Corydon and Damon sung their loves,

And the sweet notes breathed softly through the groves.

DAMON.

Hark! how the birds from every blossom sing,
And early linnets hail the purple spring!
Melodious notes ascend from every spray,
And vocal forests wake the dawning day;
Spring trips the meads, and opes the sky serene,
And gentle breezes cool the pleasing scene.
When one soft chorus purls from crystal streams,
Tunes Nature's harp and murmurs joyful hymns i

Why sit we idle, when all nature's gay,
And lively Fancy gilds the morning ray?

CORYDON.

Our flocks together graze the flowery plain;
Sing then, while I attentive hear the strain:
But let no mournful song your voice employ ;
Spring's florid pencil paints no scenes but joy.
No stake I offer, for a bribe can fire

No minds, but such as vulgar thoughts inspire.
Begin the song, for now the crocus glows,
And toiling bees explore the flagrant rose.

DAMON.

Ye Mantuan daughters, leave your cooling shades,
Where lavish Science all her flowerets spreads
Come with your needed aid, inspire my lays,

And fill the grove with fair Myrtilla's praise.

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