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PREFACE would be fuperfluous in this place. The PARNASSIAN GARLAND, as every one knows who has been a Reader of the Monthly Vifitor, forms the poetical department of that work, and is collected into its prefent fhape according to the plan of the Publication. But to those who have contributed to this part of our undertaking, and who are otherwise unconnected with us, we cannot but express, in fome degree, a due fenfe of the obligations which we owe to their independent and ceaseless exertions.

We forbear to particularize names.


who have thus obliged, and honoured the Proprietors of this Mifcellany, must be fufficiently conscious of their labours to take to themselves


that kind of reputation which it is impoffible even for envy to withhold. We have endeavoured (and we make no merit of the endeavour) to deserve the continuance of their favours.

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O! to his task, the infant year

L Comes forth; no boding frown fevere

Scowls on his brow, but fmiling mild,
He seems of dove-ey'd peace the child!
No numbing wand his young hand holds,
No hoary veft his form enfolds,

No angry blafts around him rave :-
The fpirit of the ftorm fleeps in his icy cave,

He fleeps. Still wakes a fiercer far,
His dark brow trench'd with many a fcar;
His voice loud as the vext-wave's roar,
His fable armour ftain'd with gore;
Stern war! his fiery arm the plain
Crim fons with countless legions flain,
While round him famine, dark despair,

And the wild grilly forms of luft and rapine glare.

Frantic each breathlefs coife he fpurns,

His ardent eye with fury burns.

Scar'd by his lurid frowns, the choir
Of weeping virtues fad retire;


Far from the battle's horrid yell,

In peace and folitude to dwell,
Where no lorn widow's tender wail,

No fhriek, no dying groan, hangs heavy on the gale.

But, with firm gaze, the deathless muse,
His whirlwind-course indignant views.
Sees him, for conquest and for fame,
Spread wide the wildly-wafting flame;
With lafting infamy she brands
His laurels torn from ravag'd lands;
Then, borne on feraph wings fublime,

She turns from fields of blood, and seeks a milder clime.

How long, alas! muft nature mourn
Her fairest works by rude hands torn,
And tremble as the clarion's breath
Commands her fons to deeds of death?
While, red, before her dewy eyes,
The flames from burning hamlets rife,
Where loft her babes the mother ftands,

And calls on heav'n for aid, and frenzied wrings her hands.

When fhall again, at dawning day,
Wak'd by the fhrill lark's matin lay,
In fafety o'er the furrow'd foil,
The peasant haften to his toil;
And, at mild eve his labour done,
Blithe carrol, to the setting fun;

Bleft once more in his lowly cot,

To clafp his wife belov'd, each gloomy care forgot?

Soon may ye dawn aufpicious hours!

Then bright-ey'd pleasure crown'd with flow'rs,
Shall lead the dance in fhady dell;
While feeble age paft woes fhall tell,
And gain a figh from pity meek:
Then, rofy love with dimpled-cheek,
His light hair floating round his head,

Shall to the laughing gale his fnowy banner spread.

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