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To rescue from the tyrant's sword
The oppress’d ;-unseen and unimplored,

To cheer the face of woe;
From lawless insult to defend
An orphan's right, a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;
These, these distinguish from the crowd,
And these alone, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,
Oh, with what matchless speed, they leave

The multitude behind !
Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth ?

Derived from Heaven alone,
Full on that favour'd breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.
Such is that heart;—but while the Muse
Thy theme, 0 Richardson, pursues,

Her feebler spirits faint :
She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject for an angel's song,

The hero, and the saint !

IN A LETTER TO C. P. ESQ.

ILL WITH THE RHEUMATISM.

Grant me the Muse, ye gods ! whose humble flight
Seeks not the mountain-top's pernicious height;
Who can the tall Parnassian cliff forsake,
To visit oft the still Lethean lake

3
Now her slow pinions brush the silent shore,
Now gently skim the unwrinkled waters o'er,
There dips her downy plumes, thence upward flies,
And sheds soft slumbers on her votary's eyes.

IN A LETTER TO THE SAME.

IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE.

Trust me, the meed of praise, dealt thriftily
From the nice scale of judgment, honours more
Than does the lavish and o’erbearing tide
Of profuse courtesy. Not all the gems
Of India's richest soil at random spread
O’er the gay vesture of some glittering dame,
Give such alluring vantage to the person,
As the scant lustre of a few, with choice
And comely guise of ornament disposed.

PSALM CXXXVII.

To Babylon's proud waters brought,

In bondage where we lay,
With tears on Sion's Hill we thought,

And sigh’d our hours away ;
Neglected on the willows hung
Our useless harps, while every tongue

Bewail'd the fatal day.
Then did the base, insulting foe

Some joyous notes demand,
Such as in Sion used to flow

From Judah's happy band :
Alas! what joyous notes have we,
Our country spoil'd, no longer free,

And in a foreign land !
O Solyma ! if e'er thy praise

Be silent in my song,
Rude and unpleasing be the lays,

And artless be my tongue !
Thy name my fancy still employs;
To thee, great fountain of my joys,

My sweetest airs belong.
Remember, Lord! that hostile sound,

When Edom's children cried,

“Razed be her turrets to the ground,

And humbled be her pride!' Remember, Lord! and let the foe The terrors of thy vengeance know, The vengeance they

defied ! Thou too, great Babylon, shalt fall

A victim to our God;
Thy monstrous crimes already call

For Heaven's chastising rod.
Happy who shall thy little ones
Relentless dash against the stones,

And spread their limbs abroad.

SONG,

No more shall hapless Celia's ears

Be flatter'd with the cries
Of lovers drown'd in floods of tears,

Or murder'd by her eyes ;
No serenades to break her rest,
Nor songs her slumbers to molest,

With my fa, la, la.
The fragrant flowers that once would bloom

And flourish in her hair,
Since she no longer breathes perfume

Their odours to repair,
Must fade, alas! and wither now,
As placed on any common brow,

With my fa, la, la.
Her lip, so winning and so meek,

No longer has its charms;
As well she might by whistling seek

To lure us to her arms;
Affected once, 't is real now,
As her forsaken gums may show,

With my fa, la, la.
The down that on her chin so smooth

So lovely once appear’d,

That, too, has left her with her youth,

Or sprouts into a beard;
As fields, so green when newly sown,
With stubble stiff are overgrown,

With my fa, la, la.
Then, Celia, leave your apish tricks,

And change your girlish airs,
For ombre, snuff, and politics,

Those joys that suit your years ;
No patches can lost youth recall,
No whitewash prop a tumbling wall,

With my fa, la, la.

AN

ATTEMPT AT THE MANNER OF WALLER.

Drayton, March, 1753.
Did not thy reason and thy sense,
With most persuasive eloquence,
Convince me that obedience due
None may so justly claim as you,
By right of beauty you would be
Mistress o'er my heart and me.
Then fear not I should e'er rebel,
My gentle love! I might as well
A froward peevishness put on,
And quarrel with the mid-day sun;
Or question who gave him a right
To be so fiery and so bright.
Nay, this were less absurd and vain
Than disobedience to thy reign;
His beams are often too severe ;
But thou art mild, as thou art fair ;
First from necessity we own your sway,
Then scorn our freedom, and by choice obey.

A SONG.
The sparkling eye, the mantling cheek,
The polish'd front, the snowy neck,

How seldom we behold in one !
Glossy locks, and brow serene,
Venus' smiles, Diana's mien,

All meet in you, and you alone. Beauty, like other powers, maintains Her empire, and by union reigns;

Each single feature faintly warms : But where at once we view display'd Unblemish'd grace, the perfect maid

Our eyes, our ears, our heart alarms. So when on earth the god of day Obliquely sheds his temper'd ray,

Through convex orbs the beams transmit, The beams that gently warm'd before, Collected, gently warm no more,

But glow with more prevailing heat.

A SONG.
On the green margin of the brook

Despairing Phyllida reclined,
Whilst every sigh, and every look,

Declared the anguish of her mind. Am I less lovely, then ? (she cries,

And in the waves her form survey'd;) Oh yes, I see my languid eyes,

My faded cheek, my colour fled :
These eyes no more like lightning pierced,
These cheeks grew pale, when Damon first

His Phyllida betray’d.
The rose he in his bosom wore,

How oft upon my breast was seen !
And when I kiss'd the drooping flower,

Behold, he cried, it blooms again!

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