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Though tafte, though genius bless

To fome divine excefs,

Faint's the cold work till thou infpire the whole;
What each, what all supply,

May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting foul!

Of these let others afk,
To aid fome mighty task,
I only feek to find thy temp'rate vale:
Where oft my reed might found

To maids and fhepherds round,
And all thy fons, O nature! learn my tale.


WHEN DELIA on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,

I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er the speaks, my ravifh'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear;
No other wit but her's approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If the fome other fwain commend,
Tho' I was once his fondest friend,
His inftant enemy I prove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is abfent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The cleareft fpring, the fhadieft grove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of pow'r, of beauty vain,
Her nets fhe fpreads for ev'ry fwain,
I ftrove to hate, but vainly ftrove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?


THOU foft flowing AVON, by thy filver ftream, Of things more than mortal fweet SHAKSPEARE would dream;

The fairies by moon-light dance round his green bed,
For hallow'd the turf is, which pillow'd his head.
The love-ftricken maiden, the foft-fighing fwain,
Here rove without danger, and figh without pain.
The fweet bud of beauty no blight fhall here dread,
For hallow'd the turf is, which pillow'd his head.
Here youth fhall be fam'd for their love and their

And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth;
For the raptures of fancy here poets fhall tread,
For hallow'd the turf is, which pillow'd his head.
Flow on, filver AVON, in fong ever flow,

Be the fwans on thy borders ftill whiter than fnow!
Ever full be thy ftream, like his fame may it fpread,
And the turf ever hallow'd, which pillow'd his head.



Most musical, cry'd razors up and down, And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly feem'd wond'rous cheap, And for the money, quite a heap,

As ev'ry man wou'd buy, with cash and fenfe. A country-bumpkin the great offer heard:

Poor HODGE, who fuffer'd by a broad black beard, That feem'd a fhoe-brush ftuck beneath his nofe, With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himfelf, in whifpers faid,


This rafcal ftole the razors, I fuppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave, "Provided that the razors Shave;

"It certainly will be a monftrous prize:" So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart, and foul content,

And quickly foap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
HODGE now began with grinning pain to grub,
Juft like a hedger cutting furze:

'Twas a vile razor!-then the reft he try'd-
All were impoftors-"Ah!" HODGE figh'd!
"I with the eighteen-pence within my purse."
In vain to chace his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut,and dug,and winc'd,and stamp'dandfwore:
Brought blood, and danc'd, blafphem'd, and made
wry faces,

And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.
His muzzle, form'd of oppofition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lofe its ruff;

So kept it-laughing at the steel and fuds: HODGE, in a paffion, ftretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws, On the vile cheat that fold the goods. "Razors!-a damn'd confounded dog-"Not fit to fcrape a hog!"

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HODGE fought the fellow-found him, and begunP'rhaps, meafter razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun, "That people flay themfelves out of their lives: "You rafcal-for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my fcoundrel whiskers here a fcrubbing, "With razors juft like oyfter knives.


"Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, "To cry up razors that can't have." Friend' quoth the razor-man, I'm not a knave: As for the razors you have bought, Upon my foul I never thought

That they would shave."


"Not think they'd fhave!" quoth HODGE with wond'ring eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries, 'Made!' quoth the fellow, with a smile,—' to fell.'


THEIRS is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whofe walls of mud fcarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapours flagging play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful thro' the day;
There children dwell who know no parent's care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forfaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood-fears!
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot, and the madman gay.

Here too the fick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the fcenes of grief, to grieve;
Where the loud groans from fome fad chamber flow,
Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below:
Here forrowing, they each kindred forrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man.
Whofe laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And ftrong compulfion plucks the fcrap from pride;
But ftill that scrap is bought with many a figh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, oppreft by fome fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repofe; Who prefs the downy couch, while flaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with fad

prayers the weary doctor teaze To name the nameless ever-new difeafe; Who with mock-patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone can cure;

How would you bear in real pain to lie,
Defpis'd, neglected, left alone to die?

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the floping fides;

Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud is all that lie between;

Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempeft, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erfpread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that ftagnates in his eyes;
No friends with foft difcourfe his pain beguile,
Nor promise hope till fickness wears a fmile.


WHY founds the plaint of mis'ry in the street ?

One gentle bofom only heaves a figh;
Unfeeling AV'RICE frowns and paffes by:
"Tis falfe, the mifcreant thinks-'tis all deceit;
The wily trader, wrapp'd in schemes of lure,
Heeds not the groan long-ling'ring on the air;
While GREATNESS ftoops not, from his feat fecure,
To view affliction HE will never share.

Woman of want, thy hand is ftretch'd in vain
Pity from that cold heart thou can'st not strain;
Vain tears bedew thy forrow-wafted cheek;
Forc'd from thy famish'd babe, the fearful thriek
Is nothing; fight like thine, fo woe-begone,
Should not be feen, nor heard thy pit'ous moan,
Where pomp, luxur'ous eafe, and purple pride,
And mirth, repos'd on downy beds, refide.
Spoil not the poor and thoughtless merriment;
Go! hug thy griefs at home-and ftarve content!


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