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Beneath yon high-brow 'd rocks in thickets rove, 

 Or, meditating, wander through the grove ; 

 Or, from the cavern, view the noontide beam 

 Dance on the rippling of the lucid stream, 

 While the wild woodbine dangles o'er my head, 

 And various flowers around their fragrance spread. 

 ***** 



Then homeward as I sauntering move along, 

 The nightingale begins his evening song ; 

 Chanting a requiem to departed light, 

 That smooths the raven down of sable night. 



After an animated tribute to Homer, he reviews the rising 

 and the slumbering, or drooping of the arts, midst storms of 

 war, and gloomy bigotry. 



Hail, arts divine ! still may your solace sweet 

 Cheer the recesses of my calm retreat ; 

 And banish every mean pursuit, that dares 

 Cloud life's serene with low ambitious cares. 



Vain is the pomp of wealth : its splendid halls, 

 And vaulted roofs, sustain 'd by marble walls. 

 In beds of state pale sorrow often sighs, 

 Nor gets relief from gilded canopies : 

 But arts can still new recreation find, 

 To soothe the troubles of th' afflicted mind ; 

 Recall the ideal work of ancient days, 

 And man in his own estimation raise ; 

 Visions of glory to his eyes impart, 

 And cheer with conscious pride his drooping heart. 



After a review of our several timber trees, and a tribute 

 to our native streams, and woods ; and after describing in 

 happy lines Kamtschatkas dreary coast, he concludes his 

 poem with reflections on the ill-fated Queen of France, 

 whose 



Waning beauty, in the dungeon's gloom, 

 Feels, yet alive, the horrors of the tomb ! 



