And many a pang, experienc'd still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin;
But ills of every shape and every name,
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim,
And every moment's calm that soothes the breast,
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.
Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast
Far from the flock, and in a distant waste!
No shepherd's tents within thy view appear,
But the chief Shepherd is for ever near;
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ;
Thy tears all issue from a source divine,
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine-
'Twas thus in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around,
ON THE PROMOTION OF
EDWARD THURLOW, Esq.
LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND
ROUND Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
Fair Science poured the light of truth,
And Genius shed his rays,
See; with united wonder cried
The experienc'd and the sage,
Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age!
Discernment, eloquence, and grace
Proclaim him born to sway
The balance in the highest place.
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 deem'd his own.
COME, Peace of mind, delightful guest
Return, and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart:
Nor riches I nor powers pursue,
Nor hold forbidden joys in view;
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From av'rice and ambition free,
And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets, that I was wont to share
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 sequester'd shed,
To be a guest with them?
For thee I panted, thee I priz'd,
For thee I gladly sacrificed
Whate'er I loved before;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say-
Farewell! we meet no more;
WEAK and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain;
But Passion rudely snaps the string,
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
Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail,
To reach the distant coast;
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail.
Or all the toil is lost.
REBELLION is my theme all day;
I only wish 'twould come
(As who knows but perhaps he may !) A little nearer home.
Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
On t' other side th' Atlantic,
I always held them in the right,
But most so when most frantic.
When lawless mobs insult the court,
That man shall be my toast,
If breaking windows be the sport,
Who bravely breaks the most.
But O! for him my fancy culls
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 them, Who say the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them.
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.
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
Он, happy shades-to me unbless'd!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene, that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable Care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace possess'd these silent bowers
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers.
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing slow;
They seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me to nourish wo!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
WHAT Nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,
And Winter is deck'd with a smile.
See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flowers have the charms of spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead
|