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Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, "Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. Lo, now with state she utters the command! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are; To save from finger wet the letters fair: The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St. George's high atchievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween!

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Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be! But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see, Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires: Ah! better far than all the muses' lyres, All coward arts, is valour's gen'rous heat; The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires, Like Vernon's patriot soul; more justly great Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry false deceit.

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Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever-new,

And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:

Yet see how all around 'em wait

The Ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, shew them where in ambush stand

To seize their prey the murth'rous band!
Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,

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To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A griesly troop are seen,

AN ELEGY

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The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

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The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 19 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return,

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Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy
stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

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