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The gloomy night is gathering fast,
The autumn mourns her ripening corn
'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
Farewell! old Coila's hills and dales,
The path to bliss abounds with many a snare; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him if you please. Voltaire ?-The same.) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died. The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew Bon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew; An infidel in health, but what when sick ? 0—then a text would touch him at the quick: View him at Paris in his last career, Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere; Exalted on his pedestal of pride, And fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath, And smothered in't at last, is praised to death.
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store ;