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But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, Oh grant a poet leave to recommend,
(A poet fond of nature and your friend) He chides the tardiness of every post,
Her slighted works to your admiring view, Pants to be told of battles won or lost,
Her works must needs excel who fashion’d you. Blames his own indolence, observes, though late, Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride, 'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state,
With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side, Flies to the levee, and received with grace, Condemn the prattler for his idle pains, Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place. To waste unheard the music of his strains, Suburban villas, highway-side retreats,
And deaf to all the impertinence of tongue, That dread the encroachment of our growing That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong, streets,
Mark well the finish'd plan without a fault, Tight boxes neatly sash'd, and in a blaze
The seas globose and huge, the o'erarching vault, With all a July sun's collected rays,
Earth's millions daily fed, a world employ'd Delight the citizen, who gasping there
In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy’d, Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise O sweet retirement, who would baulk the thought of God, beneficent in all his ways,That could afford retirement, or could not ? Graced with such wisdom how would beauty shine ! 'Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight,– Ye want but that to seem indeed divine. The second milestone fronts the garden gate; Anticipated rents and bills unpaid A step if fair, and if a shower approach
Force many a shining youth into the shade, You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach. Not to redeem his time, but his estate, There prison'd in a parlour snug and small, And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall,
There hid in loath'd obscurity, removed The man of business and his friends compress’d, From pleasures left, but never more beloved, Forget their labours, and yet find no rest; He just endures, and with a sickly spleen, But still ’tis rural,--trees are to be seen
Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. From every window, and the fields are green ;
Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme, Ducks paddle in the pond before the door, Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime, And what could a remoter scene show more? The warblings of the blackbird, clear and strong, A sense of elegance we rarely find
Are musical enough in Thomson's song, The portion of a mean or vulgar mind,
And Cobham's groves and Windsor's green reAnd ignorance of better things makes man
treats, Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can ; When Pope describes them, have a thousand And he that deems his leisure well bestow'd
sweets : In contemplations of a turnpike road,
He likes the country, but in truth must own, Is occupied as well, employs his hours
Most likes it when he studies it in town. As wisely, and as much improves his powers,
Poor Jack-no matter who,--for when I blame As he that slumbers in pavilions graced
I pity, and must therefore sink the name, With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste.
Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, Yet hence, alas ! insolvencies, and hence
And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense,
The estate his sires had own’d in ancient years From all his wearisome engagements freed, Was quickly distanced,-match'd against a peer's. Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed. Jack vanish’d, was regretted and forgot ;
Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, 'Tis wild good-nature's never-failing lot. Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, At length, when all had long supposed him dead, When health required it, would consent to roam, By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead, Else more attach'd to pleasures found at home; My lord, alighting at his usual place, But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife,
The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face. Ingenious to diversify dull life,
Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys,
He might escape the most observing eyes, Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys,
And whistling as if unconcern’d and gay, And all impatient of dry land, agree
Curried his nag and look'd another way. With one consent to rush into the sea.
Convinced at last, upon a nearer view, Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad,
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, Much of the power and majesty of God;
O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and He swathes about the swelling of the deep,
joy, That shines and rests, as infants smile and He press'd him much to quit his base employ,sleep;
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand, Vast as it is, it answers as it flows
Influence, and power were all at his command. The breathings of the lightest air that blows; Peers are not always generous as well-bred; Curling and whitening over all the waste,
But Granby was,—-meant truly what he said. The rising waves obey the increasing blast, Jack bow'd, and was obliged ;-confess'd 'twas Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars,
strange Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores ; That so retired he should not wish a change, Till he that rides the whirlwind checks the rein, But knew no medium between guzzling beer Then all the world of waters sleeps again.
And his old stint, three thousand pounds a year. Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads,
Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe, Now in the floods, now panting in the meads, Some seeking happiness not found below, Votaries of pleasure still, where'er she dwells, Some to comply with humour, and a mind Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells,
To social scenes by nature disinclined,
Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust,
Lucrative offices are seldom lost
ye when happiest, and enlightend most, And highest in renown, can justly boast.
A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bear The weight of subjects worthiest of her care, Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires, Must change her nature, or in vain retires. An idler is a watch that wants both hands, As useless if it goes as when it stands. Books therefore, not the scandal of the shelves, In which lewd sensualists print out themselves, Nor those in which the stage gives vice a blow, (With what success let modern manners show ;) Nor his, who for the bane of thousands born, Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn, Skilful alike to seem devout and just, And stab religion with a sly side-thrust; Nor those of learn’d philologists, who chase A panting syllable through time and space, Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark; But such as learning without false pretence, The friend of truth, the associate of sound sense, And such as in the zeal of good design, Strong judgment labouring in the scripture mine, All such as manly and great souls produce, Worthy to live, and of eternal use ; Behold in these what leisure hours demand, Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand. Luxury gives the mind a childish cast, And while she polishes, perverts the taste; Habits of close attention, thinking heads, Become more rare as dissipation spreads, Till authors hear at length, one general cry, Tickle and entertain us, or we die. The loud demand from year to year the same, Beggars invention and makes fancy lame; Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune, Calls for the kind assistance of a tune, And novels, (witness every month's Review) Belie their name, and offer nothing new. The mind relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.
Friends, (for I cannot stint as some have done, Too rigid in my view, that name to one, Though one, I grant it in the generous breast, Will stand advanced a step above the rest ; Flowers by that name promiscuously we call, But one, the
rose, the regent of them all ;) Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste, But chosen with a nice discerning taste, Well born, well disciplined, who, placed apart From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart, And (though the world may think the ingredients
odd) The love of virtue, and the fear of God! Such friends prevent what else would soon succeed, A temper rustic as the life we lead, And keep the polish of the manners clean, As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene. For solitude, however some may rave, Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, A sepulchre in which the living lie, Where all good qualities grow sick and die. I praise the Frenchman', his remark was shrewd,How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude ! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet. Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside That appetite can ask, or wealth provide,
Can save us always from a tedious day,
Religion does not censure or exclude
Me poetry (or rather notes that aim Feebly and faintly at poetic fame) Employs, shut out from more important views, Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse; Content if thus sequester'd I may raise A monitor's, though not a poet's praise, And while I teach an art too little known, To close life wisely, may not waste my own.
REASONING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way, While meaner things whom instinct leads
Are rarely known to stray.
And heard the voice of love;
And soothed the listening dove :
No time shall disengage;
Shall cheer our latest age.
And constancy sincere,
And mine can read them there,
Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shared with thee.
Or kites are hovering near,
And know no other fear.
'Tis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side, Resolved a union form’d for life
Death never shall divide.
But oh! if fickle and unchaste,
(Forgive a transient thought) Thou couldst become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot, No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak, Denied the endearments of thine eye
This widow'd heart would break.
Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind; And I recorded what I heard,
A lesson for mankind.
A RAVEN, while with glossy breast
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK DURING HIS SOLITARY A PODE IN THE ISLAND OF
But suddenly a wind as high
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O solitude! where are the charms
That sages 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 sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see, They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
MORAL. 'Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and your's. Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape, An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that’s strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again ! My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
Religion ! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard, Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.
The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
abound, How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd! But time that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected, leaves a dreary waste behind.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more! My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me? Oh tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
SWEET stream that winds through yonder glade,
But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair. There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD
THURLOW, ESQ. TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND,
Round Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
And genius shed his rays.
The experienced and the sage,
With all the skill of age.
Proclaim him born to sway
And bear the palm away.
He sprang impetuous forth
Attends superior worth.
Ere yet he starts is known,
What all had deem'd his own.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part, Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart. 'Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view, And while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
And dangers little known,
Man vainly trusts his own.
To reach the distant coast, The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.
THE MODERN PATRIOT.
ODE TO PEACE.
Come, peace of mind, delightful guest ! Return and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart : Nor riches I, nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view,
We therefore need not part.
And pleasure's fatal wiles ?
The banquet of thy smiles ?
And wilt thou quit the stream
To be a guest with them?
Whate'er I loved before ;
Farewell ! we meet no more?
REBELLION is my theme all day,
I only wish 'twould come (As who knows but perhaps it may)
A little nearer home. Yon roaring boys who rave and fight
On the other side the Atlantic, I always held them in the right,
But most so, when most frantic.
That man shall be my toast,
Who bravely breaks the most.
The choicest flowers she bears, Who constitutionally pulls
Your house about your ears. Such civil broils are my delight,
Though some folks can't endure 'em, Who say the mob are mad outright,
And that a rope must cure 'em. A rope ! I wish we patriots had
Such strings for all who need 'em,What ! hang a man for going mad ?
Then farewell British freedom.
ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE
RECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.
WEAK and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
Vice seems already slain,
And it revives again.
Ou fond attempt to give a deathless lot,
So when a child, as playful children use,