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For, watchful Guilt is wide awake,
While Virtue soundly sleeps.

Poor Kate possess'd, as evening fell,

A Hybla all her own;

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Ere morn, on Brymbo's summits broke,

Her every hive was gone!

Yet, Kate, the day shall surely come,

The hours are on the wing,

When all the honey shall be thine,

And his th' eternal sting!

* Eminences East and South of Cymmau, and the residence of

Thomas Jones, Esq.

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Fierce from Hyperborean caves,
Loud, and wild, lo! Winter raves,
Affrighted, as she wings her way,
Rolls the agitated sea;

And rushing on resisting shores,
The desolating tempest roars;
Widen'd by her boisterous breath,
Gape the briny jaws of Death,

That pour, while many a victim dies,
Heart-rending shrieks, and dying cries.

Yes, rifler of the fruitful year,
With all thy horrors thou art here;

Say, wilt thou, while thy wrath is hurl'd,
And either hand at random throws,
Insulting o'er a suffering world,

Thy frigid fetters and thy snows :
While floating in thy flaky air,
Wilt thou hear the wanderer's pray'r;
Ah! no, thy feelings all are froze,
In vain the trackless waste he knows,
In vain implores inclement skies,
Fair Hope deserts the sullen gloom,
Despair, dread rolls her maniac eyes,
And drags him to his doom.

Thou too, as many a tale can tell,
Hast heedless heard the sorrowing yell,

Hast seen the constant dog attend,

In death itself, his long-lov'd friend;
Fix'd to his side his faithful guardian lic,

And to that faith, with martyr firmness die!

While o'er Hiraethog,* Berwyn,† vast,
Thy all-involving clouds are cast,

* A lofty and extensive mountain, in Merionethshire. An upland district of great extent, in Denbighshire.

O! let the rage that marks thy reign,
Pass o'er the huts of Want and Pain;
From scenes of agravated woe,
Turn thy frightful face and go;
Go where Grandeur's columns rise,
And Art illumes her stucco'd skies;
Go where Riot's train resorts,
And selfish Pride unfeeling sports,
Where Mirth's, gay group, thy frowns defy,
And Folly waves her feathers high;

And ere her race nocturnal's run,

Lights the Morn's intruding sun.

Yet annual scourge, even thou hast charms, For while thy steril will prevails,

Contagion shuns thy gelid gales,

And Health comes swinging both her arms;

And Vegetation slowly creeps,

To thy maternal lap and sleeps ;

But rests to ope her dewy eyes,

And shew her tints to milder skies.

If rough Deformity was fled,

Beauty, in vain, might rear her head;

Without thee every season's foil,

(Sapping Autumn's mealy spoil)

The flowers that deck the brows of Spring,

Or shed their sweets from Summer's wing;
The leafy grove, the choral strain,

Th' unvaried year, would laugh in vain.

Stern, though thy petrifying face

Unform'd in Stanhope's* school of Grace;
Thy figure tall, disgusting, thin,
Thy mind, without a wish to win;

Yet cold and chilling as thou art,

Thou know'st to warm the social heart;
Thou know'st that some even thee beguile,

Bid even thy features boast a smile;
These are the Good, and they alone,
Can sooth thee on thy icy throne.

*It is possible that this Ode may be read by some persons who do not know that a series of letters from a Nobleman (Lord Chesterfield) to his son, were published a few years ago, the object of which was, the polish of high life and the "Graces."

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