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Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine ?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see ;
And your condition may be foon like mine,
The child of Sorrow and of Misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, sweet foother of my care !
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling’ring fell, a vi&tim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a


Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

с Н А Р.




WHAT beck'ning ghaft, along the Moon-light hade

Invites my fteps, and points to yonder glade ? "Tis she !--but why that bleeding bafom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ?


Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n a crime to love too well ?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?
Ambition first sprung from your bleft abodes ;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage :
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres ;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, fleep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blaft of death ;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And thofe love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,
Thus all your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steeld,
And cursd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perilh all, whose breast ne'er learn’d to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever injur'd shade !)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier :
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd ;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn’d.
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show ?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nør polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave' with rising flow’rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the firit roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

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So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How loy'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot ;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves muft fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!




Η Υ Μ Ν.

'HESE are thy glorious work, Parent of good!

Almighty! thine this universal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair! thyself how wond'rous then!
Unspeakable ! who fiteft above these heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowliest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye fons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heav'n,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midft, and without end.


Fairest of ftare, laft in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'd the {miling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou fun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; found his praise
In thy eternal-course, both when thou climb'it,
And when high noon 'haft gain'd, and when thou fall'it.
Moon that now meets the orient sun, now fly't
With the fix'd ftars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires, that move
In myftic dance not without fong, resound
His praise, who out of darkness calld up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldeft birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker ftill new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rife
From hill or streaming lake, duky or grey,
Till the fun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds th' oncolour'd.fky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling howers,
Rising or falling still advance bis praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe foft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in fign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye, that warble, as ye flow,
Melcdious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices all ye living fouls ; ye birds,


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