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<< If Heav'n with children crown your dwelling,

"As mine its bounty does with you, "In fondness fatherly excelling,

"Th' example you have felt pursue.”

He paus'd-for tenderly careffing
The darling of his wounded heart,
Look's had means only of expreffing
Thoughts, language never could impart.

Now night, her mournful mantle spreading,
Had rob'd in black th' horizon round,
And dank dews, from her treffes shedding,
With genial moisture bath'd the ground;

When back to city follies flying,

'Midst custom's flaves he liv'd refign'd, His face, array'd in fmiles, denying

The true complexion of his mind.

For feriously around furveying

Each character, in youth and age,

Of fools betray'd, and knaves betraying,
That play'd upon this human stage;

(Peaceful himself and undefigning)

He loath'd the scenes of guile and ftrife, And felt each fecret with inclining

To leave this fretful farce of life.

Yet to whate'er above was fated
Obediently he bow'd his foul,

For, what all-bounteous Heav'n created,
He thought Heav'n only fhould controul.



Occasioned by seeing the Graves dressed with Flowers, at Brecknock in Wales.


“WHITHER away, fair maid!” I cry'd,

As on old Hundy's bank I lay,
When, paffing by me, efpy'd
A modest maid in neat array.
Upon her red but well-turn'd arm
A little wicker-basket hung;
With flowers of various hues complete,
And branches ever-green and young:

The fragrant bay, the mournful yew,
The cyprefs, and the box, were there ;
The daify py'd, the violet blue,

The red pink, and the primrose fair.

"And why that basket on your arm,
"With all those fragrant fweets supply'd ?”
With blushing look, and penfive air,
And voice of meekness, soft she figh'd:

"To yonder church-yard do I haste,

"To dress the grave where Henry fleeps;

"No maid a truer lover blefs'd

"No maid more faithful lover weeps.

"Stern Death forbade us to unite,

"And cut him down with ruthless blow; "And now I fpeed to deck his grave,

"As 'tis our weekly wont to do.”

The melancholy custom pleas'd:

She left me wrapp'd in penfive thought; Ideas fad, but foothing, rofe,

When my flow steps the church-yard fought. There, kneeling o'er her Henry's grave, Adorn'd with all her basket's store,

The rural maiden, fighing, hung,

Her eyes with tender tears ran o'er.

She rais'd those eyes, fo full of tears,

Which now and then stole down her cheek And much to Heav'n fhe would have spoke, But forrow would not let her fpeak. Yet, though her thoughts could find no vent, There is, who reads each honest mind: And the true heart to Him devote,

Shall ample fatisfaction find.

Then, gentle maiden! do not fear,

Again thy Henry thou shalt meet:

Till then thy tender task pursue,

And ftrew thy greens and flow'rs so sweet.

And you, whom all around I fee,

The fame dear mournful task employ : Ye parents, children, hufbands, wives, The melancholy blifs enjoy!

Oh! 'tis delicious to maintain

Of friends deceas'd a due refpect! Then bring me flow'rets-bring me greens, Straight fhall my parents' grave be deck'd; And many a friend's (whom faithful love Still keeps alive within my breaft)

Luxuriously fad, I'll fee

With choieeft garlands weekly drefs'd.

Come, then, the wicker-basket bring;
Come, Memory, and with me go!
Each lovely flower that breathes the spring
Affection's gentle hand shall strew:

A mellow tear of soothing woe,

Shall o'er the graves spontaneous fall ; While Heav'n the heart's ftill with fhall hear, And to each other grant us all.




ERE yet, ingenuous youth, thy steps retire

From Cam's fmooth margin, and the peaceful vale,
Where Science call'd thee to her ftudious quire,
And met thee mufing in her cloisters pale;

O let thy friend (and may he boast the name!)
Breathe from his artlefs reed one parting lay:
A lay like this thy early virtues claim,

And this let voluntary friendship pay.

Yet know, the time arrives, the dang'rous time, When all thofe virtues, op'ning now so fair, Tranfplanted to the world's tempeftuous clime, Muft learn each paffion's boift'rous breath to bear;


There, if Ambition, peftilent and pale,

Or Luxury should taint their vernal glow;
If cold felf-intereft, with her chilling gale,

Should blast th' unfolding bloffoms e'er they blow;

If mimic hues, by Art or Fashion spread,

Their genuine fimple colouring should fupply;
may with them thefe laureate honours fade,
And with them (if it can) my friendship die!

Then do not blame, if, though thyself inspire,
Cautious I ftrike the panegyric string;

The Mufe full oft pursues a meteor fire,

And vainly vent'rous, foars on waxen wing:
Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The Poet's bofom pours the fervent strain,
Till fad Reflection blames the hafty choice,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.

Call we the shade of Fope from that blest bow'r,
Where thron'd he fits with many a tuneful fage;
Afk, if he ne'er bemoans that hapless hour

When St. John's name illumin'd Glory's page.
Aík, if the wretch who dar'd his mem❜ry stain ;
Afk, if his country's, his religion's foe,
Deferv'd the meed that Malbro' fail'd to gain;

The deathlefs meed he only could beflow:
The Bard will tell thee, the mifguided praife-
Clouds the celeftial funfhine of his breast;
E'en now, repentant of his erring lays,

He heaves a figh ainid the realms of reft.

If Pope through Friendhip fail'd, indignant view,
Yet pity Dryden-hark, whene'er he fings,


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