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THE

MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TALE.

A HERMIT, (or if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old)
A man, once young, who liv'd retir'd
As hermit could have well desir'd,
His hours of study clos'd at last,
And finish'd his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruise, replac'd his book
Within its customary nook,

And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at ev'ningtide,
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees, that fring'd his hill,
Shades slanting at the close of day
Chill'd more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still sunny side,
And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,

Just reach'd it when the sun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something from whate'er occurs→→→
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,

Or other sublunary game,

Imagination to his view

Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue,
That can seduce him not to spare
His pow'rs of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On so desirable an end.

Ere long approach life's ev'ning shades,
The glow, that fancy gave it, fades;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
That first engag'd him in the chase.
True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-
But whether all the time it cost,
Tó urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth

Of that, which call'd his ardour forth.
Trifles pursu'd, whate'er th' event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there he wins a curse;
But he, whom e'en in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,

Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well design'd;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.

THE

FAITHFUL BIRD.

THE greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air;

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang, as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miss'd.

But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppress'd;
And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.

The open windows seem'd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere,
To leave his friend behind,

So settling on his cage, by play,

And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,

You must not live alone

U

Nor would he quit that chosen stand Till I, with slow and cautious hand, Return'd him to his own.

O ye, who never taste the joys
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!

Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison with a friend preferr'd
To liberty without.

THE

NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

THERE is a field, through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss aud silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring 'squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; And where the land slopes to its watery bourn, Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time, For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats, With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes, For which, alas! my destiny severe,

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Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.

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