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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.
But the sea-fowl is 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's 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
Round Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
And genius shed his rays.
See! with united wonder cried
The experienced and the sage, Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age!
Discernment, eloquence, and grace,
Proclaim him born to sway
And bear the palm away.
The praise bestowed was just and wise;
He sprang impetuous forth, Secure of conquest, where the prize
Attends superior worth.
So the best courser on the plain
Ere yet he starts is known, . And does but at the goal obtain
What all had deemed his own.
ODE TO PEACE.
COME, peace of mind, delightful guest!
Once more in this sad heart:
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
And pleasure's fatal wiles?
The banquet of thy smiles ?
The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven, that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream, That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequestered shed,
To be a guest with them?
For thee 1 panted, thee I prized,
Whate'er I loved before;
Farewell! we meet no more?
Weak and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to day,
To morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;
And it revives again.
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.