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Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark,
Prove, rather than impeach, the juft remark:
As here and there a twinkling ftar descried
Serves but to fhow how black is all befide.
Now look on him, whose very voice in tone
Juft echoes thine, whose features are thine own,
And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red,
And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head,
And fay-My boy, th' unwelcome hour is come,
When thou, transplanted from thy genial home,
Muft find a colder foil and bleaker air,
And truft for fafety to a stranger's care;

What character, what turn thou wilt affume
From conftant converfe with I know not whom ;
Who there will court thy friendship, with what views,
And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;
Though much depends on what thy choice fhall be,
Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me.--
Can't thou, the tear juft trembling on thy lids,
And while the dreadful rifque forefeen forbids
Is;
Free, too, and under no constraining force,
Unless the sway of custom warp thy course;
Lay such a stake upon the lofing fide,

Merely to gratify fo blind a guide?

Thou can'ft not! Nature, pulling at thine heart,
Condemns th' unfatherly, th' imprudent part.

Thou would'st not, deaf to Nature's tend'reft plea,
Turn him adrift upon a rolling fea,

Nor fay, Go thither, conscious that there lay
A brood of afps, or quickfands in his way;
Then, only govern'd by the self-fame rule
Of natʼral pity, send him not to school.
No-guard him better. Is he not thine own,
Thyfelf in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone?
And hop'st thou not ('tis ev'ry father's hope)
That, fince thy strength muft with thy years elope,
And thou wilt need fome comfort to affuage
Health's laft farewell, a staff of thine old age,
That then, in recompense of all thy cares,
Thy child fhall show respect to thy gray hairs,
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,
And give thy life its only cordial left?
Aware then how much danger intervenes,

To compafs that good end, forecast the means.
His heart, now paffive, yields to thy command;---
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.

If thou defert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and bafe
Supplant thee in it, and ufurp thy place.
But, if thou guard its facred chambers fure
From vicious inmates and delights impure,

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Either his gratitude fhall hold him fast,
And keep him warm and filia Ito the laft;
Or, if he prove unkind (as who can fay
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?)
One comfort yet fhall cheer thine aged heart-
Howe'er he flight thee, thou haft done thy part.

Oh barb'rous! would't thou with a Gothic hand
Pull down the schools—what !—all the schools i' th' land;
Or throw them up to liv'ry-nags and grooms,
Or turn them into fhops and auction rooms?
A captious question, fir, (and your's is one)
Deferves an anfwer fimilar, or none.
Would't thou, poffeffor of a flock, employ
(Appriz'd that he is fuch) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to fleep, and let them run aftray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and fee
A fight not much unlike my fimile.
From education, as the leading caufe,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their caft,
Extravagant or fober, loose or chafte.

And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This Building to be Let,

Unless the world were all prepar'd t' embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better manag'd, or encourag'd lefs..

ON

THE DEATH

OF

MRS. THROCKMORTON's BULFINCH.

YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red

With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed,

O fhare Maria's grief!

Her fav'rite, even in his cage,

(What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Affaffin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus ftrays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung,
And though by nature mute,

Or only with a whistle bleft,

Well-taught he all the founds express'd
Of Alagelet or flute.'

The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the fleekeft mole,
His bofom of the hue

With which Aurora decks the skies,

When piping winds fhail foon arise

To sweep up all the dew.

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