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PITY'S TEAR.

What falls so sweet on summer flow'rs
As soft, refreshing, tepid show'rs?
What bids the bud its sweets exhale
Like ev'niny's mildly-whispering gale ?
Yet sweeter, more delicious far,
And brighter than the brightest star,
Decking the intellectual sphere,
Is Pity's meek, and balmy tear.

What bids despair her arrows hide?
What checks Afiction's tort'ring tide?
What heals the wound of mental pain,
And sooths the fev'rish, throbbing brain ?
What calms the rage of jealous pride,
And bids the reading pang subside?
Lulling to rest distrust and fear-
Soft Pity's kind and holy tear,

Yet not that Pity form’d to give
A
pang

which bids affliction live; Not Pity that can, taunting show Superior pride, untouch'd by woe :

Not Pity that, with haughty smile,
Consoles,—and murders all the while
But Pity which is form’d to prove.
Th: bund of faith-the test of luve.

ON A TEAR.

Oh! that the chemists magic art
Could chrystalize this sacred treasure !
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasuro.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell-
The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign, restorer of the soul!
Who ever fy'st to bring relief,
When first she feels the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief,

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The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law * which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its scaurce,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course,

* The law of gravitation.

FORTITUDE.

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I love the man, whose giant soul

Spurns at opinions tyrant sway, To no vile despot yields his hearts Disdaining Fashion's proud controul,

He turns from Folly's glittering way, Dares nobly trample on the pride of Art.

War's bloody fiends, with wrathful ire,

Bid o'er the fields their legions fly,
Far o'er the main bid rage extend ;
He that can hate their martial fire,

Can scan their souls with Reason's eye, Is to Britannia's Bard a bosom friend.

Stern Winter triumphs in the sky,

Sad Nature's woeful face deforms,
Fell Horror spreads her sable wing;
He can the giant Fear defy,

When sweep around the raging storms, And with undaunted soul can laugh and sing.

He dreads no thunders of the night,

When roaming o'er the pathless waste,

When toiling on the mountain'd wave;
And he can smile at gnashing Spite,

Whilst Envy speeds with hellish haste,
To bid her tallon'd fiends around him rave.

He nor vile Wealth's bewitching glare,

Nor titles high that Pride bestows,
Behold with eyes of keen desire ;
How fails the venom'd look of Care,

To shake his bosom's calm repose,
When all the gleams of soothing Hope expire !

When, felt in flames of sore disease,

Death's dagger'd throngs invade his heart He still unconquer'd meets the shock; Firm as a mountain, still at ease,

He smiles unmov'd, por feels the dart, But stands a champion bold on Heav'ns eternal

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