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31

Ah! hear, and deign my numbers to inspire,
And grant my Muse one spark of native fire!
For Natives Tale I tell, yours was the Swain,
And yours, the gentle Maid who wakes my strain.

When Osbornes verdant lawns refresh the eye,
And its fair groves a pleasing shade supply;
A straw crown'd Cottage lifts its rustic head,
And wildly blooming flow'rs their odours shed:
Its garden's narrow bounds good herbage yield,
And rich the produce of its single field.
Beneath this roof in calm contentment blest,
An aged couple many years found rest.
One lovely Daughter soothed their latter days,
Fair in her form, and just in all her ways.
There tho' no polish'd arts were understood,
She learnt that useful Science to be good.
By Nature form'd, by Nature too refined,
Her's were the noblest Feelings of the mind.

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