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No womanish or wailing grief has part,
No, not a moment, in his royal heart;
'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make,
Suff'ring with gladness for a Saviour's sake:
His soul exults, hope animates his lays,
The sense of mercy kindles into praise,
And wilds, familiar with a lion's roar,
Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before:
"Tis love like his, that can alone defeat
The foes of man, or make a desert sweet.

Religion does not censure or exclude
Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursued;
To study culture, and with artful toil
To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil;
To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands
The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands;
To cherish virtue in an humble state,
And share the joys your bounty may create;
To mark the matchless workings of the pow's,
That shuts within it's seed the future flow'r,
Bids these in elegance of form excel,
In colour these, and those delight the smell,
Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies,
To dance on Earth, and charm all human eyes;

To teach the canvass innocent deceit,
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet-
These, these are arts pursu'd without a crime,
That leave no stain upon the wing of Time.

Me poetry (or rather notes that aim
Feebly and vainly at poetic fame)
Employs, shut out from more important views,
Fast by the banks of the slow winding Ouse;
Content if thus sequester'd I may raise
A monitor's, though not a poet's praise,
And while I teach an art too little known,
To close life wisely, may not waste my own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR

TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country Clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed

for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,

To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,

The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is, and blithe

Three quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a sithe,

When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,

As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears

He heaves up many a sigh.
VOL. I.

For then the farmers come jog, jog,

Along the miry road, '. Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In sooth, the sorrow of such days

Is not to be express'd, When he that takes and he that pays

Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates

The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald pates

He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows

Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes,

Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come each makes his leg,

And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg,

And not to quit a score.

“ And how does miss and madam do,

“ The little boy and all?" “ All tight and well. And how do you,

“Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?".

The dinner comes, and down they sit:

Were e'er such hungry folk? There's little talking, and no wit;

It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,

One spits upon the floor,
Yet, not to give offence or grieve,

Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull

And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,

They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins.

“ Come, neighbours, we must wag-—" The money chinks, down drop their chins,

Each lugging out his bag.

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