COWPER.

VERSES,

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez.

I

AM monarch of all I furvey,

My right there is none to difpute,
From the centre all round to the fea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That fages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone.
Never hear the fweet mufic of fpeech,
I ftart at the found of my own.
The beafts that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference fee,
They are fo unacquainted with man,
Their tamenefs is fhocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely beftow'd upon man,
O had I the wings of a dove,
How foon wou'd I taste you again!
My forrows I then might affuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Refides in that heav'nly word! More precious than filver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the found of the church-going bell Thefe vallies and rocks never heard, Ne'er figh'd at the found of a knell, Or fmil'd when a fabbath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this defolate fhore,

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I fhall vifit no more.
My friends do they now and then fend
A with or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to fee. How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the fpeed of its flight, The tempeft itself lags behind,

And the fwift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! rècollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to defpair. But the fea-fowl is gone to her neft, The beaft is laid down in his lair,

E'en here is a feafon of reft,

And I to my cabbin repair.

There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

PRECEPTOR.

BOADICEA,

AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior Queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage, beneath a spreading oak,
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Ev'ry burning word he spoke,
Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princefs! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchlefs wrongs, 'Tis because refentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome fhall perish-write that word
In the blood that he has fpilt;
Perish hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states,

Soon her pride shall kifs the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.

Other Romans fhall arife,

Heedlefs of a foldier's name,
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

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Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions, Cæfar never knew,
Thy pofterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he fweeps the chords
Of his sweet, but awful lyre.
She with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bofom glow,
Rush'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitilefs as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due,

Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

THE SHRUBBERY.

Written in a Time of Affliction.

OH, happy fhades-to me unblest !

Friendly to peace, but not to me!

How ill the fcene that offers reft,

And heart that cannot reft, agree!

This glaffy stream, that fpreading pine, Thofe alders quiv'ring to the breeze, Might foothe a foul lefs hurt than mine,

And please, if any thing could please,

But fix'd unalterable care

Foregoes not what the feels within, Shows the fame sadness ev'ry where,

And flights the season and the scene.

For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace poffefs'd these filent bow'rs,
Her animating fmile withdrawn,

Has loft its beauties and its pow'rs.

The faint or moralift fhould tread

This moff-grown alley, mufing, flow;
They feek, like me, the fecret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe!

Me fruitful scenes and profpects waste
Alike admonish not to ream;
Thefe tell me of enjoyments past,
And thofe of forrows yet to come.

THE ROSE.

THE Rofe had been wash'd, just wash'd in a fhow'r,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flow'r,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet

And it feem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush were it grew.

I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,