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Your righteous zeal the brave Brigantes warm'd, Silent they heard, approv'd, united, arm'd.

Ye gales, that on the downs of Surry stray,
Sleep on the Mole', or on the Vandal' play,
From every flower medicinal that springs,
Waft balmy fragrance with your temperate
wings,

The grace, the glory of the church restore,
And save the friend, the father of the poor.
And lo! our prayers, with fervency preferr'd,
Rise sweet as incense, and by Heav'n are heard:
The genial season, with refreshing rains,
Bright-beaming mornings, health-exhaling plains,
And pure etherial gales, conspire to heal
Our public father, for the public weal.

Oh! by kind Providence to Britain given,
Long may you live, and late revisit Heaven;
Continue still to bless us with your stay,
Nor wish for Heav'n till we have learnt the way.
So by your pattern shall our years be spent
In sweet tranquillity, and gay content;
So shall we rise immortal from the dust,
And gain the blissful kingdoms of the just.

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Will wake the drowsy Spring, the Spring awake the flowers.

Let Health, gay daughter of the skies,
On Zephyr's wings descend,
And scatter pleasures, as she flies,
Where Surry's downs extend:
There Herring wooes her friendly power;
There may she all her roses shower;

To heal that shepherd all her balms employ,
So will she sooth our fears, and give a nation joy.

The grateful seasons, circling fast,}
Reviving suns restore,

But life's short spring is quickly past,
And blooms, alas! no more;
Then let us, ere by sure decays

We reach the winter of our days,
In virtue emulate the bless'd above,
And like the Spring display benevolence and love.

ODE TO SUMMER.

BY A GENTLEMAN OF CAMBRIDGE,

HAIL, gentle Summer, to this isle!
Where Nature's fairest beauties smile,
And breathe in every plain;
'Tis thine to bid each flower display,
And open to the eye of day

The glories of its reign.

While yon few sheep enjoy the breeze,
That softly dies upon the trees,

And rest beneath the shade;
This pipe, which Damon gave, shall raise
Its rural notes to sing thy praise,
And ask the Muse's aid.

Diana's ear shall catch the sound,
And all the nymphs that sport around
The vale, or upland lawu;

The nymphs, that o'er the mountain's brow
Pursue the lightly-bounding roe,

Or chase the flying fawn.

Ev'n now, perchance, some cool retreat
Defends the lovely train from heat,
And Phoebus' noontide beam;
Perchance they twine the flowery crown
On beds of roses, soft as down,
Beside the winding stream.

Delightful season! every mead
With thy fair robe of plenty spread,

To thee that plenty owes;
The laughing fields with joy declare,
And whisper all in reason's ear,

From whence that plenty flows.

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How mix'd the many chequer'd shades beThe tawny, mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green!

How splendid all the sky! how still!
How mild the dying gale!

How soft the whispers of the rill

That winds along the vale!

So tranquil Nature's works appear,
It seems the Sabbath of the year:

As if, the Summer's labour past, she chose

This season's sober calm for blandishing repose.

Such is of well-spent life the time,
When busy days are past;
Man, verging gradual from his prime,
Meets sacred peace at last :

His flowery Spring of pleasures o'er,

Lo! Winter comes, in fɔgs array'd,
With ice and spangled dews;
To dews, and fogs, and storms, be paid
The tribute of the Muse.

And Summer's full-blown pride no more,
Fe gains pacific Autumn, mild and bland,
And dauntless braves the stroke of Winter's pal-
sy'd hand.

For yet a while, a little while,
Involv'd in wintry gloom,

And lo! another spring shall smile,

A spring eternal bloom :

Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,
In the bright mansions of the blest,

Each flowery carpet Nature spread Is vanish'd from the eye; Where'er unhappy lovers tread, No Philomel is nigh.

Where due rewards on virtue are bestow'd,
And reap the golden fruits of what his autumn
sow'd.

ODE ON WINTER.

BY A GENTLEMAN OF CAMBRIDGE.

FROM mountains of eternal snow, And Zembla's dreary plains; Where the bleak winds for ever blow, And frost for ever reigns;

(For well I ween her plaintive note
Can soothing ease impart ;
The little warblings of her throat
Relieve the wounded heart.)

No blushing rose unfolds its bloom,
No tender lilies blow,

To scent the air with rich perfume,
Or grace Lucinda's brow.

Th' indulgent Father who protects
The wretched and the poor;
With the same gracious care directs
The sparrow to our door.

Dark, scowling tempests rend the skies
And clouds obscure the day;

His genial warmth the Sun denies,
And sheds a fainter ray.

Yet blame we not the troubled air,
Or seek defects to find;
For Power Omnipotent is there,
And walks upon the wind.

Hail every pair whom love unites

In wedlock's pleasing ties ;
That endless source of pure delights,
That blessing to the wise!

Though yon pale orb no warmth bestows,
And storms united meet;

The flame of love and friendship glows With unextinguish'd heat.

AN ODE

TO HIS GRACE THE LORD ARCHBISHOP OF
CANTERBURY.

THANKS to the generous hand that plac'd me here,

Fast by the fountains of the silver Cray, Who leading to the Thames his tribute clear, Through the still valley winds his secret way. Yet from his lowly bed with transport sees In fair exposure noblest villas rise, Hamlets embosom'd deep in antient trees, And spires that point with reverence to the skies.

O lovely dale! luxuriant with delight!

O woodland hills! that gently rising swell; O streams! whose murmurs soft repose invite; Where peace and joy and rich abundance

dwell:

How shall my slender reed your praise resound
In numbers worthy of the polish'd ear?
What powers of strong expression can be found
To thank the generous hand that plac'd me
here:

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FAST by the fountains of the silver Cray1

Encircled deep with weeping willows round, O! let me sorrowing pass the pensive day, And wake my reed to many a plaintive sound. For good Aurelius (now alas! no more)

Sighs follow sighs, and tears to tears succeed; Him shall the Muse in tenderest notes deplore, For oft he tun'd to melody my reed. How was I late by his indulgence blest, Cheer'd with his smiles, and by his precepts taught!

My fancy deem'd him some angelic guest, Some Heaven-sent guide, with blissful tidings fraught.

Mild was his aspect, full of truth and grace,

Temper'd with dignity and lively sense;
Sweetness and candour beam'd upon his face,
Emblems of love and large benevolence.
Yet never useless slept those virtues fair,

Nor languish'd unexerted in the mind;
Secret as thought, yet unconfin'd as air,

He dealt his bounties out to all mankind. How will the poor, alas! now truly poor, Bewail their generous benefactor dead? Who daily, from his hospitable door,

The naked cloth'd, and gave the hungry bread.

To sick and orphans duly sent relief,

Was feet and eyes to cripples and the blind, Sooth'd all the suffering family of grief,

And pour'd sweet balsam on the wounded mind. How will the nation their lost guardian mourn? Lo! pale-ey'd Science fix'd in grief appears; The drooping Arts, reclining on his urn,

Lament, and every Muse dissolves in tears. Genius of Britain! search the kingdom round, Ere yet the strict inquiry be too late; What bold, unblemish'd patriot can be found", To rouse the virtues of a languid state?

'A river in Kent.

• This poem was wrote in 1757.

With freedom's voice to wake the slumbering

age,

To cheer fair merit, prowess to advance, Dauntless to rise, and scourge with generous rage The high-plum'd pride and perfidy of France. Alas! no longer burns the glorious flame:

The patriot passion animates no more;
But, like the whirling eddy, some low aim
Absorbs alike the great, the rich, the poor.
Not so, when wise Aurelius o'er the north
Shed the mild influence of his pastoral care,
The madness of rebellion issuing forth,

He stemm'd the torrent of the rising war.
Behold him! with his country's weal inspir'd,
Before the martial sons of Ebor stand,
Fair in the robe of eloquence attir'd,

In act to speak, he waves the graceful hand: Silent as evening, lo! the listening throng, While from his lips the glowing periods fall, Drink sweet persuasion streaming from his tongue,

And the firm chain of concord binds them all As some large river, gentle, strong, and deep, Winds his smooth volumes o'er the wide cam

paign,

Then forceful flows, and with resistless sweep,
Rolls, in his strength collected, to the main:
Thus the good prelate, in his country's cause,
Pour'd the full tide of eloquence along ;
As erst Tyrtæus gain'd divine applause,

Who fir'd the Spartans with heroic song.
But when religious truths his bosom warm'd,
Faith, hope, repentance, and eternal love,
With such pathetic energy he charm'd,

He rais'd our souls to Paradise above, The holy city's adamantine gate

On golden hinge he open'd to our view; Unravell'd every path, perplex'd and strait, And gave to willing minds the safe-conducting clew.

For God's Messiah was his chosen guide;

And well the sacred lore he understood, And well the precept, sent from Heaven, apply'd, "For evil meekly recompensing good."

Thus mild, thus humble, in the highest state,

The "one thing needful" was his sole regard Belov'd, and blamelesss he prolong'd his date By acts of goodness, which themselves reward. To him the bed of sickness gave no pain;

For, trusting only in th' Almiş rty King, He look'd on dissolution as his gain;

No terrours had the grave, and death no sting. Ah! Muse, forbear that last sad scene to drawThis homage, due to virtue, let me pay, These heart-sprung tears, inspir'd by filial awe, These numbers warbled to the silver Cray May, 1757.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOST SACRED MAJESTY

KING GEORGE THE SECOND.

Au, fatal bour!-v
-we must at last resign-
Farewel, great hero of the Brunswick line!
For valour much, for virtue more renown'd,
With wisdom honour'd, and with glory crown'd.
'Twas thy bless'd lot a happy reign to close,
And die serene, triumphant o'er thy foes;
To see the faithless, vain insulting Gaul,
Like proud Goliath, nodding to his fall;
In chains the sons of tyranny to bind,
And vindicate the rights of human kind.

No brighter crown than Britain's God could
give

To grace the monarch, till he ceas'd to live;
Then gave him, to reward his virtuous strife,
A heavenly kingdom, and a crown of life.

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Oh! were they worthy of the sovereign's ear,
The Muse should greet Britannia's blissful isle,
Where crown'd with liberty the graces smile;
Where the pleas'd halcyon builds her tranquil
nest,

No storms disturb her, and no wars molest:
For still fair peace and plenty here remain'd,
While George, the venerable monarch, reign'd.
One generation pass'd secure away,
"Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway;"
Now cold in death the much-lov❜d hero lies,
His soul unbodied seeks her native skies:
The living laurels which his temples crown'd
Strike root, and shade his funeral pile around.

As when the Sun, bright ruler of the year,
Through glowing Cancer rolls his golden sphere,
He gains new vigour as his orb declines,
And at the goal with double lustre shines:

In splendour thus great George's reign surpast,
Bright beam'd each year, but brightest far the

last:

Where-ever waves could roll, or breezes blow,

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With joy, great prince, your happy subjects
A better Titus now reviv'd in you;
Of gentler nature, and of nobler blood,
Whose only study is your people's good:
For you (so truly is your heart benign)
To heathen virtues christian graces join.

O may Heaven's providence around you wait,
And bless you with a longer, happier date;
Then will your virtue all its powers display,
And noble deeds distinguish every day;
Joys unallay'd will sweetly fill your breast,
Your people blessing, by your people blest;
Then will the rage of rancorous discord cease,
The drooping arts revive, and all the world have
peace.

November 15, 1760.

A PARODY ON A PASSAGE IN
MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

BOOK IV.

BENEATH a beech's bowery shade
Damon in musing mood was laid,
A brook soft-dimpling by his side,
Thus echo, as he sung, reply'd:

"Sweet is the breath of rosy morn,
Soft melody the sky-lark trills,
Bright are the dew-drops on the thorn,
Fresh are the zephyrs on the hills,
Pure are the fountains in the vale below,
And fair the flowers that on their borders blow:
Yet neither breath of roseate morn,

Nor wild notes which the sky-lark trills,
Nor dew drops glittering on the thorn,

Nor the fresh zephyrs of the hills,
Nor streams that musically-murmuring flow,
Nor flowers that on their mossy margins grow,
Can any joy suggest

But to the temper'd breast,
Where virtue's animating ray
Illumines every golden day,

Beams on the mind, and makes all nature gay."

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

FATHER of all, whose throne illumines Heaven,
All honour to thy holy name be given.
Thy gracious kingdom come: thy righteous will
Let men on Earth as saints in Heaven fulfil.
Give us this day the bread by which we live:
As we our debtors, thou our debts forgive.
Let not temptation lead us into woe:
Keep us from sin, and our infernal foe.
For thy supreme dominion we adore;

His fleet pour'd ruin on the faithless foe: [hurl'd, Thy power, thy glory, is for evermore.
France saw, appall'd, the dreadful vengeance
And own'd him monarch of her western world.
But now, alas! see pale Britannia mourn,
And all her sons lamenting o'er his urn.

Thus when Vespasian died, imperial Rome
With copious tears bedew'd the patriot's tomb;
But soon o'er sorrow bright-ey'd joy prevail'd,'
When Titus ber lov'd emperor she hail'd;
Titus, a blessing to the world design'd,
The darling and delight of human-kind.

Amen.

DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER
SAUL AND JONATHAN.

SAMUEL, BOOK II. CHAPTER I.
THE flow'r of Israel withers on the plain;
How are the mighty on the mountains slajn

In Gath, ah! never this dishonour name,
Nor in the streets of Askelon proclaim;
Lest the sad tidings of our country's woe
Cause triumph to the daughters of the foe.
May Heav'n, Gilboa, on thy heights ne'er pour
The dew refreshing, or the fruitful shower;
Ne'er may thy furrows give the golden seed,
Nor from thy folds the fleecy victims bleed:
There mighty men through fear their shields re-
sign'd,

The shield of Saul was basely left behind.
Thy bow, O Jonathan, oft strew'd the plain
With carcasses of valiant heroes slain;
Thy sword, O Saul, ne'er left its sheath in vain.
Blest pair! whom love with sweetest concord tied,
Whom glory join'd, and death cou'd not divide.
Dreadful through all the war they mov'd along,
Swift as the eagle, as the lion strong. [drest
Weep, weep for Saul, ye maids, whose bounty
Israel's fair daughters in the scarlet vest;
Who gave you gold and pearls your robes to
deck,

And rings and jewels for your hands and neck.
Thy prowess, much lov'd Jonathan, prov'd vain;
How are the mighty on the mountains slain!
To me, O Jonathan, for ever dear,

Thy fate, alas! demands th' eternal tear :
Where can such faith, such piety be found?
Such pleasing converse with firm friendship
bound?

Thy love was wondrous, soothing all my care,
Passing the fond affection of the fair.

How are the mighty on the mountains slain !
And all the instruments of battle vain!

THE PICTURE OF OLD-AGE,

PARAPHRASED FROM THE SEVEN FIRST VERSES OF THE TWELFTH CHAPTER OF ECCLESIASTES.

son,

MY
attentive hear the voice of truth;
Remember thy Creator in thy youth,
Ere days of pale adversity appear,
And age and sorrow fill the gloomy year,
When wearied with vexation thou shalt say,
"No rest by night I know, no joy by day;"
Ere the bright soul's enlighten'd pow'rs wax frail,
Ere reason, memory, and fancy fail,

But care succeeds to care, and pain to pain,
As clouds urge clouds, returning after rain:
Ere yet the arms unnerv'd and feeble grow,
The weak legs tremble, and the loose knees bow;
Ere yet the grinding of the teeth is o'er,
And the dim eyes behold the Sun no more;
Ere yet the pallid lips forget to speak,
The gums are toothless, and the voice is weak;
Restless he rises when the lark he hears,
Yet sweetest music fails to charm his ears.
A stone, or hillock, turns his giddy brain,
Appall'd with fear he totters o'er the plain;
And as the almond-tree white flow'rs displays,
His head grows hoary with the length of days;
As leanness in the grasshopper prevails,
So shrinks his body, and his stomach fails;
Doom'd to the grave his last long home to go,
The mourners march along with solemn woe:
Ere yet life's silver cord be snapt in twain,
Ere broke the golden bowl that holds the brain,

Ere broke the pitcher at the fountful heart,
Or life's wheel shiver'd, and the soul depart,
Then shall the dust to native earth be given,
The soul shall soar sublime, and wing its way to
Heaven.

A GOOD WIFE.

FROM PROVERBS, Chapter xxxi.
MORE precious far than rubies, who can find
A wife embellished with a virtuous mind:
In her securely, as his better part,
Her happy husband cheerful rests his heart:
With such a lovely partner of his toil
His goods increase without the need of spoil.
Bless'd in the friendship of his faithful wife,
He steers through all vicissitudes of life.
Well pleas'd she labours, nor disdains to cull
The textile flax, or weave the twisted wool.
Rich as the merchant ships that crowd the
strands,

She reaps the harvest of remotest lands.
Early she rises ere bright Phœbus shines,
And to her damsels separate tasks assigns:
Refresh'd with food her hinds renew their toil,
And cheerful haste to cultivate the soil.
If to her farm some field contiguous lies,
With care she views it, and with prudence buys;
And with the gains which Heaven to wisdom
grants,

[wear.

A vineyard of delicious grapes she plants.
Inur'd to toils she strength and sweetness joins,
Strength is the graceful girdle of her loins.
With joy her goodly merchandise she views,
And oft till morn her pleasing work pursues.
The spindle twirls obedient to her tread,
Round rolls the wheel, and spins the ductile
Benignant from her ever-open door [thread.
She feeds the hungry, and relieves the poor.
Nor frost nor snow her family molest,
For all her household are in scarlet drest.
Resplendent robes are by her husband worn,
Her limbs fine purple and rich silks adorn:
For wisdom fam'd, for probity renown'd,
He sits in council with bright honour crown'd.
To weave rich girdles is her softer care,
Which merchants buy, and mighty monarchs
With strength and honour she herself arrays,
And joy will bless her in the latter days.
Wise are her words, her sense divinely strong,
For kindness is the tenour of her tongue.
Fair rule and order in her mansion dwell,
She eats with temperance what she earns so well.
Rich in good works her children call her blest,
And thus her husband speaks his inmost breast:
"To Eve's fair daughters various virtues fall,
But thou, lov'd charmer, hast excell'd them all."
Smiles oft are fraudful, beauty soon decays,
But the good woman shall inherit praise.
To her, O grateful, sweet requital give!
Her name, her honour shall for ever live

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