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Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez.
AM monarch of all I furvey,
My right there is none to difpute,
That fages have seen in thy face?
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone.
Society, friendship, and love,
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.
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 reconciles man to his lot.
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,
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
Rome for empire far renown'd,
Soon her pride shall kifs the ground-
Other Romans fhall arife,
Heedlefs of a foldier's name,
Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
Regions, Cæfar never knew,
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due,
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
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,
Has loft its beauties and its pow'rs.
The faint or moralift fhould tread
This moff-grown alley, mufing, flow;
Me fruitful scenes and profpects waste
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,
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
I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,