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Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scamp'ring in the rear,

They rais'd the hue and cry:—

Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!

Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up

He did again get down.

Now let us sing, long live the king,

And Gilpin long live he; And, when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

AN EPISTLE

TO

AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
MADAM,

A Stranger's purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise.
To give the creature the Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or ev'n to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by Craft for Folly's use design'd,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No trav'ller ever reach'd that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
The World may dance along the flow'ry plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,

EPISTLE TO A LADY IN FRANCE. 365

Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of it's end.
But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears."
O balmy gales of soul reviving air!
O salutary streams, that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breath'd from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious World will interpose it's frown,
To mar delights superior to it's own;
And many a pang, experienc'd still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin:
But ills of ev'ry shape and ev'ry name,
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim;
And ev'ry moment's calm, that sooths the breast,
Is giv'n in earnest of eternal rest.

366 EPISTLE TO A LADT IN FRANCE.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is 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 ev'ry drop bespeaks a Saviour thine— So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.

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