Tents, marquees, and baggage waggons;
Suttling-houses, beer in flagons;
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"HERE POPE FIRST SUNG!" O, hallow'd Tree !
Such is the boast thy bark displays;
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[Inscribed to Colonel Banastre Tarleton]
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Here droops the muse! while from her glowing mind,
Celestial Sympathy, with humid eye,
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SWEET PICTURE of Life's chequer'd hour!
Ah, wherefore droop thy blushing head?
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Far o'er the waves my lofty Bark shall glide,
Love's frequent sighs the flutt'ring sails shall swell,
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When, in the gloomy mansion of the dead,
This with'ring heart, this faded form shall sleep;
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O thou! meek Orb! that stealing o'er the dale
Cheer'st with thy modest beams the noon of night!
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Venus! to thee, the Lesbian Muse shall sing,
The song, which Myttellenian youths admir'd,
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O, let me seize thy pen sublime
That paints, in melting dulcet rhyme,
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SWEET CHILD OF REASON! maid serene;
With folded arms, and pensive mien,
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THE SEA-BEAT MARINER, whose watchful eye
Full many a boist'rous night hath wak'd to weep;
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On the low margin of a murm'ring stream,
As rapt in meditation's arms I lay;
14 lines
While from the dizzy precipice I gaze,
The world receding from my pensive eyes,
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THOU! whose sublime poetic art
Can pierce the pulses of the heart,
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WHOE'ER thou art, whose soul-enchanting song
Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe;
14 lines
WIDE o'er the barren plain the bleak wind flies,
Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its breath
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Why, when I gaze on Phaon's beauteous eyes,
Why does each thought in wild disorder stray?
14 lines
O! Reason! vaunted Sovreign of the mind!
Thou pompous vision with a sounding name!
14 lines
Blest as the Gods! Sicilian Maid is he,
The youth whose soul thy yielding graces charm;
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When SUPERSTITION rul'd the land
And Priestcraft shackled Reason,
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ENLIGHTEN'D Patron of the sacred Lyre?
Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song
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FAIR was this blushing ROSE of May,
And fresh it hail'd morn's breezy hour,
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WHEN FATE in ruthless rage assail'd my breast,
And Heaven relentless seal'd the harsh decree;
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THOU meekest emblem of the infant year,
Why droops so cold and wan thy fragrant head ?
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[The following little Poems are written after the Model of the Old English Ballads, and are inscribed to those who admire the simplicity of that kind of versifi
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Oh! ye bright Stars! that on the Ebon fields
Of Heav'n's empire, trembling seems to stand;
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Oh Sigh! thou steal'st, the herald of the breast,
The lover's fears, the lover's pangs to tell;
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Prepare your wreaths, Aonian maids divine,
To strew the tranquil bed where I shall sleep;
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Beneath an old wall, that went round an old Castle,
For many a year, with brown ivy o'erspread;
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