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TO THE MRS.'S R▬▬▬▬▬▬▬S,


No, gentle ladies !—he on Brighton's flood, Who deck'd with N's name a feeble page; For you, the guardians of the fair and good,

Has arm'd no bitter stings of Satan's rage. On impious necks the Muse of vengeance treads, For shameless folly dips her shafts in gall; While, droping odours on your virtuous heads, The dews of praise, a precious ointment, fall. Your N-m's mind in every virtue grew,

In every grace, beneath your sweet control; In genuine lustre were preserved by you

Her polish'd form, reflecting all the soul. Her candid smiles, unconscious of their worth, Her blush of nature without other dye! You taught her modest eyes to love the Earth, Or soar in flaming rapture to the sky. Her, the best gift of Heaven, its gracious love Permitted to your guidance-come and share The joy of virtuous souls, whose toils improve The talents trusted to their fruitful care'. Come, faithful servants-hear a voice proclaim Your hymn of triumph-'tis no song of mine; 'Tis Heaven that calls you to partake your fame With God the giver, and this gift divine.



HERE Charles lay shelter'd, from this desert


He lanch'd the bark, and brav'd the tempest's
He trusted here the faith of simple swains,
And ocean, friendlier than the Worcester plains.
No beauteous forms, as now adorn'd it then,
The downs were pathless, without haunt of men.
One shepherd wander'd on the lonely hill,
One village-maid explor'd the distant rill.
But mark the glittering scenes succeeding these;
See peopled all the shores, and healing seas;
Yet, friend to Britain, flows alike the wave
With India's treasures, and defrauds the grave.
Had fate now plac'd him on this fairy land,
The thoughtless Charles had linger'd on the

Nor danger chill'd, nor high ambition fir'd
That wanton bosom, by the loves inspir'd:
His languid sails the monarch here had furl'd,
Had gain'd a N-n's smile, and lost the world.

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And turn no more the giddy rounds
Of pleasure's wanton chace,
But range beyond material bounds,
Eternity, and space!-
Come, read in ocean's ample page,
Explain the cause that guides,
That bridles now, and now to rage
Precipitates the tides.

In glory see the planets roll,

Their laws, their measure, scan,
Nor there confin'd, explore the soul,
And liberty, and man!

On soaring pinions let us shoot,
Like him, the bird of Jove!

—“What waste,” she cries, “in such pursait, An age of life and love!

"With eagle flight and eagle view

Let Newton sail the sky!

But what am I? or what are you,
Philosopher?-a fly:

"Vain insect! now aloft he springs
To drink the liquid light,
And quenches now his flagging wings
In angry seas and night.
"Ah fool! to quit his reptile state
Amid fresh dews and flowers!
Be his the justly purchas❜d fate,
The sober lesson ours.
"From clouds descending, let us try
What humbler regions give!

Let others soar to fall and die!
'Tis ours to creep, and live."



No more let science tempt thy searching eyes Beyond the bounds prescrib'd to mortal sight, No more advent'rous mount the lofty skies,

And daring, penetrate the realms of light. With humble mind go trace thy Maker's hand In every smiling valley, fertile plain; Adore his bounty in the cultur'd land,

Revere his wisdom in the stormy main! Nor thoughtless view the vast tremendous sea, Whose course impetuous power divine res[cree, trains ; Whose rushing tide, control'd by Heaven's de. Forbears to violate the flow'ry plains.

Nor yet confine to these thy wand'ring sight, While splendid gems the face of Heav'n adorn; Nor heedless view the radiant lamps of night, Nor heedless view the Sun that gilds the morn: But turn with praise to Him who reigns above, Supreme o'er works that speak almighty

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WHERE the broad path-way fronts yon ancient


Approach not, stranger, with unhallow'd feet, Nor mock the spot, unshelter'd now, and bare! The grove's old honours rose majestic there: It's giant arms extending to defend Thy reverend temples, man's and virtue's friend! Secure thy walk that unpierc'd gloom along, No storm approach'd to silence Homer's song; No beam to wound thy Heav'n-directed eye: The world's near tumult swept unheeded by. Now, low as thine, these towering heads are laid, No more embower the mansion in their shade, Time-honour'd pile! that owning thee its lord, Saw ancient manners, ancient faith, restor❜d; In renovated youth beheld again Saturnian days, the good Eliza's reign.

With thee too sheltering many an angel guest, For what, but Heaven, serener than thy breast?


Blest mansion then, simplicity's abode, Where smiling innocence look'd up to God, Where nature's genuine graces charm'd the heart, Or nature, polish'd but by classic art. [beams, The saint's high rapture, and the poet's dreams, There fancy, warm'd with brightest, chastest The pensive mountain, and the hermit's cell.While virtue left, delighting there to dwell, There the good teacher held by turns to youth The blaze of fiction and pure light of truth, Who, less by precept than example fir'd, Glow'd as he taught, inspiring and inspir'd.

Nor think, gay revellers, this awful roof Echoed no sounds but wisdom's harsh reproof; The social board, attendant mirth, was there, The smile unconscious of to morrow's care, With every tranquil joy of wedded life, The gracious children, and the faithful wife. In dance, in song, in harmless sports approv'd, There youth has frolick'd, there soft maids have


There one, distinguish'd one-not sweeter blows In simpler ornament attir'd, the rose,

The rose she cull'd to deck the nuptial bower, Herself as fair-a transitory flower.

Thus a short hour-and woods and turrets fall;

The good, the great, the beauteous, perish all, Another age a gayer race supplies,

Not Warwick's

Less awful groves, and gaudier villas rise, See wisdom's place usurp'd by folly's sons, And scorners sit on virtue's vacant thrones. See neighbouring Combe's old genius quit its bowers, [towers; Nor distant see new royal domes⚫ deride name preserv'd his gothic What half remains of Wolsey's ancient pride! While yet this humbler pile survives to prove A mansion worthy of its master's love: Like him, still welcomes to its liberal door Whom most he honour'd, honouring most the poor;

Like him, the lisping infant's blessing shares,
And age's gratitude in silent prayers.---
While such partake the couch, the frugal feast,
No regal chambers boast an equal guest;
For, gracious Maker, by thy own decree,
Receiving mercy is receiving Thee!-

Combe-Neville, near Kingston, built by the king-making earl of Warwick.

The new apartments at Hampton Court, raised on the ruins of part of Wolsey's palace.

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