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النشر الإلكتروني

But let the wise and well-instructed hand

Once take the shell beneath his just command,

In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd

Of the rude injuries it late sustain❜d,

Till tun'd at length to some immortal song,

It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise

along.

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RETIREMENT.

-studiis florens ignobilis ott.

VIRG. Georg. Lib. 4.

HACKNEY'D in business, wearied at that oar
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,

Where, all his long anxieties forgot

Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,

Or recollected only to gild o'er,

And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may posses the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of Ease,

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Improve the remnant of his wasted span,

And, having lived a trifler, die a man.

Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For Heav'n's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,

From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,

Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,
Were works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,

To regions where, in spite of sin and wo,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,

Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love.
"Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,

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True wisdom will attend his feeble call,

And grace his action ere the curtain fall.

Souls, that have long despis'd their heav'nly birth, Their wishes all impregnated with Earth,

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For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care,
In catching smoke and feeding upon air,
Conversant only with the ways of men,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Invet'rate habits choke th' unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate it's tend'rest part,
And, draining it's nutricious pow'rs to feed
Their noxious growth, starve ev'ry better seed.
Happy, if full of days-but happier far,

If, ere we yet discern life's ev'ning star,

Sick of the service of a world, that feeds

It's patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
We can escape from Custom's idiot sway,

To serve the Sov'reign we were born to obey.
Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made!

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