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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 caressing
The darling of his wounded heart, Looks had means only of expressing
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 resign'd, His face, array'd in smiles, denying
The true complexion of his mind.
For seriously around surveying
Each character, in youth and age,
That play'd upon this human ftage; (Peaceful himself and undefigning)
He loath'd the scenes of guile and Atrife, And felt each secret with inclining
To leave this fretful farce of life,
Yet to whate'er above was fated
Obediently he bow'd his soul,
He thought Heav'n only should controul.
PIOUS MEMORY. 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, passing by me, I efpy'd
A modeft maid in neat array.
A little wicker-basket hung ;
And branches ever-green and young :
The cypress, and the box, were there ; The daisy py'd, the violet blue,
The red pink, and the primrose fair. “ And why that basker on your arm,
“ With all those fragrant sweets supply'd ?" With blushing look, and pensive air, ·
And voice of meekness, soft she figh'd: “ To yonder church-yard do I hafte,
“ To dress the grave where Henry fleeps; “ No maid a truer lover bless'
" No maid more faithful lover weeps. o Scern Death forbade us to unite,
" And cut him down with ruthless blow; « And now I speed to deck his grave,
“ As 'tis our weekly wont to do."
The melancholy custom pleas'ds
She left me wrapp'd in pensive thought;
my Now 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, so full of tears,
Which now and then stole down her cheek And much to Heav'n she would have spoke,
But forrow would not let her speak. Yet, though her thoughts could find no vent,
There is, who reads each honest mind : And the true heart to Him devote,
Shall ample satisfaction find. Then, gentle maiden! do not fear,
Again thy Henry thou shalt meet : Till then thy tender talk pursue,
And strew thy greens and flow'rs so sweet. And you, whom all around I see,
The same dear mournful task employ : Ye parents, children, husbands, wives,
The melancholy bliss enjoy! Oh! 'tis delicious to maintain
Of friends deceas'd a due respect ! Then bring me flow'rets bring me greens,
Straight shall my parents' grave be deck'd; And many a friend's (whom faithful love.
Still keeps alive within my breaft)
Luxuriously fad, I'll see
With choieeft garlands weekly dress'd.
Come, Memory, and with me go!
Affection's gentle hand shall strew :
Shall o'er the graves spontaneous falt; While Heav'n the heart's still will shalt hear,
And to each other grant us all.
From Cam's smooth margin, and the peaceful vale, Where Science call’d thee to her studious quire,
And met thee musing in her cloisters pale; Olet thy friend (and may he boast the name!)
Breathe from his artlefs reed one parting lay:
And this let voluntary friendship pay.
When all those virtues, op’ning now fo fair,
Must learn each pasion's boift'rous breath to bear;
There, if Ambition, peftilent and pale,
Or Luxury should taint their vernal glow; If cold self-intereft, with her chilling gale,
Should blast th' unfolding blossoms e'er they blow; If mimic hues, by Art or Fashion spread,
Their genuine fimple colouring thould supply ; O may with them these laureate honours faile,
And with them (if it can) my friendship die! Then do not blame, if, though thyself inspire,
Cautious I strike the panegyric ftring; The Muse full oft pursues a meteor fire,
And vainly ventrons, soars on waxen wing: Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The Poet's bosom pours the fervent strain,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.
Where thron'd he sits with many a tuneful fage; Alk, if he ne'er bernoans that hapless hour
When St. John's name illumin'd Glory's page. Alk, if the wretch who dar'd his mem'ry stain ;
Alk, if bis country's, his religion's foe, Deserv'd the meed that Malbro' fail'd to gain;
The deathless meed he only could betiow : The Bard will tell thee, the misguided praise
Clouds the celestial sunshine of his breast; E'en now, repentant of his erring lays,
He heaves a sigh ainid the realms of reft. If Pope thro .gh Friendlip fail'l, indignant view, Yet pity Dryden--hark, whene'er he fings,