19. From the Cherubin and Seraphin, who ftand before Thee, to the worm in the bowels of the Earth, all living creatures receive of Thee, what is good and expedient for them.

20. And not one fuffereth change, without Thy knowledge.

21. Praife then the Lord, O my Soul, and rejoice before Him,

22. Lift up thyfelf unto Him with reverence, for He heareth thy prayer, and will help thee,

23. O my God, give me an understanding heart and make me to be filled with true wisdom.

24. May I be filled with Thy Holy Spirit, and daily draw nearer to Thee my God!

25. And appoint for me, here on Earth, what Thou feeft good and expedient for me.

26. Help me that I may discharge my duty in my ftation, and do Thy will.

27. And having ferved my generation here on Earth, grant that I may enter into the world of light.

28. That I may join the Hoft of Heaven, to praile, Thy Name, O Lord, for ever and ever. Amen.

HAWKSTONE is the Seat

of Sir Richard Hill, Baronet, One of the Knights of the Shire for the County of Salop, and is fituated at about eleven Miles diftance from SHREWSBURY, a Small Pamphlet defcriptive of which may be had at HAWKSTONE INN, an elegant Houfe built by Sir Richard, for the Accommodation of Those who come to fee the Place. It may also be had of J. StockF. dale, Piccadilly, LONDON, or T. Wood, Printer, SHREWSBURY, and other Bookfellers. Price, one Shilling.

Infcriptions

IN HAWKSTONE PARK:

The Seat of Sir RICHARD HILL, Bart.

Over the two large Whale Ribs near the Inn.

Here Paffenger, thy course begin,
And Nature's charms admire,

Where varied landfcapes feaft the Eye,
The feet forget to tire.

In a Recefs in the Grotto.

Let thofe furround the throne of Kings,
Who court the pomp that grandeur brings:
Tho' fprung from Needham's noble race
'Tis here I fix my dwelling place;
Contentment be my happy lot,

My lov'd abode this peaceful grot.

+ Thefe Limes are in the Hand of a large Wax Figure, which was given to Sir Richard Hill Bart. by the late Lord KILLMOREY, whofe name is Needham, and one of whofe Ancestors the Figure reprefents.

In the Retreat.

Whilft all thy glories, O my Gon,
Thro' the creation fhine,

Whilft rocks and hills and fertile vales,
Proclaim the hand Divine,

Oh! may

I view with humble heart,-
The Wonders of THY power,
Difplay'd alike in wilder fcenes,
As in cach blade and flower.
E

But

But whilft I tafte thy bleflings, LORD,

And fip the ftreams below,

O may my Soul be led to Thee,
From whom all bleflings flow!

And if fuch footsteps of thy love,
Thro' this loft world we trace,
How far tranfcendent are thy works,
Throughout the world of grace!

Juft as before yon' noontide fun
The brightest stars are small,
So earthly comforts are but fnares,
'Till grace has crown'd them all.

In the Hermit's Habitation,

Far from the busy scenes of life,
Far from the world its cares and ftrife,
In Solitude more pleaf'd to dwell,
The Hermit bids you to his cell;
Warns you Sin's gilded baits to fly,
And calls you to prepare to die.

Over a Seat at Neptune's Whim, on the
Bark of an Oak.

Whilst baneful vice lays confcience waste
With mad'ning Joys of fenfe,

These rural scenes beguile the hours

In pleafing innocence.

On an Urn in the Tower Glen:

Anno 1784,

This Urn

Was placed here, by Sir Richard Hill, Bart.
(eldest Son of Sir Rowland Hill, Bart.)
One of the Knights of this Shire,
As a token of affection to the Memory of his
much-respected Ancestor,

ROWLAND

ROWLAND HILL, of HAWKSTONE, ESQUIRE ;

A Gentleman remarkable for his great wisdom, piety, and charity, who being a zealous Royalift, hid himself in this Glen, in the civil wars, in the time of KING CHARLES THE FIRST;

But being discovered, was imprisoned in the adjacent Castle, commonly called Red Caftle, whilft his house. was pillaged and ranfacked by the Rebels. The Caftle itself was foon afterwards demolifhed.

His fon, Rowland Hill, Efq; coming to his affiftance, alfo fuffered much in the fame loyal cause.

The above account taken from Kimber's Baronetage, as also from the traditions of the family, holds forth to pofterity the attachment of this ancient House, to an unfortunate and much injured Sovereign.

Entering into the Walls of Red Caftle;

See this vaft antique Pitt, how reverend grey,
In hoary age its Walls and mould'ring towers!
With tufted Mofs and Ivy rudely hung,

From whofe high turrets, now by years decay'd,
We trace the dire remains of bloody war.
Those lonesome walks of thick uncouthest shade,
By length of centuries paft, by turns have clos'd
A race of Warriors here entomb'd.

Over the Bower of Contemplation.

Sacred to Contemplation.

Tell me, dear ftranger, tell me true,
What Sorrows fwell thy breast;
Midft all the joys the world can give,
Ah! why fo far from reft?

Oft fad forebodings from within

Announce the hidden fore,

Whilft fruitlefs arts the wound to heal

But make it fefter more.