Part 67 (2/2)

Ah, fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain!

Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day.

No more: where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

_Progress of Poesy_.

O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love.

Ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

_The Bard_.

Give ample room, and verge enough.

Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.

_Elegy in a Country Churchyard_.

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

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