WILLIAM had got a private hole to spy
The folks who came with writs, or "How d'ye do?” Poffeffing, too, a penetrating eye,
Friends from his foes the Quaker quickly knew.
A bailiff in disguise, one day,
Though not difguis'd to our friend WILL,
Came, to WILL's fhoulder compliments to pay,
Conceal'd, the catchpole thought, with wondrous skill.
Boldly he knock'd at WILLIAM's door,
Dreft like a gentleman, from top to toe,
Expecting quick admittance to be fure—
But-no.
WILL'S fervant, NATHAN, with a ftraight-hair'd head,
Unto the window gravely ftalk'd, not ran-
“Master at home?" the, Bailiff fweetly faid—
"Thou canst not speak to him!" reply'd the Man.
"What," quoth the Bailiff, "won't he fee me then?”
Nay," fnuffled NATHAN, "let it not thus ftrike thee; "Know, verily, that WILLIAM PENN
"Hath feen thee, but he doth not like thee."
TOW the bluft'ring Boreas blows,
See, all the waters round are froze;
The trees, that skirt the dreary plain,
All day a murm'ring cry maintain;
The trembling forest hears their moan,
And fadly mingles groan with groan:
How difmal all from east to west,-
Heav'n defend the
poor diftreft !
Such is the tale,
On hill and vale,
Each traveller may behold it is;
While low and high
Are heard to cry,
"Bless my heart, how cold it is!"
Humanity, delightful tale!
While we feel the winter gale,
May the high peer, in ermin'd coat,
Incline the heart to forrow's note;
And where, with mis'ry's weight opprefs'd
A fellow fits a fhiv'ring gueft,
Full ample let his bounty flow,
To footh the bofom chill'd by woe:
In town or vale,
Where'er the tale
Of real grief unfolded is;
Oh! may he give
The means to live,
To those who know how cold it is!
Perchance fome warrior, blind and lam'd,
Some dauntless tar, for Britain maim'd;
Confider these, for thee they bore
The lofs of limbs, and fuffer'd more;
Oh! pafs them not, or if you do,
I'll figh to think, they fought for you:
Go, pity all, but, 'bove the reft,
The foldier, or the tar diftreft:
Through winter's reign,
Relieve their pain,
For what they've done, fure bold it is ;
Their wants fupply,
Whene'er they cry,
“Bless my heart, how cold it is!"
And now, ye fluggards, floths, and beaux,
Who dread the breath that winter blows,
Pursue the conduct of a friend,
Who never found it yet offend;
While winter deals its frost around,
Go face the air, and beat the ground,
With cheerful fpirits exercife,
'Tis there health's balmy bleffing lies:
On hill or dale,
Though fharp the gale,
And frozen you behold it is;
The blood fhall glow,
And fweetly flow,
And you'll ne'er cry, "How cold it is !"
On the Death of a Husband.
I My dear flexis, en I talk of thee?
N what foft language fhall my foul break free,
Nor nymph, nor grace, of all the fancy'd train,
Nor weeping loves fhall aid my penfive strain:
True paffion has a force too ftrong for art;
She needs no Muse who can invoke her heart:
Taftelefs of forms, and from all comfort torn,
The hufband-lover-and the friend-I mourn!
All that to worth and tenderness was due ;
Whate'er excess the fondeft paffion knew,
I felt my pray'rs to Heav'n were all for thee;
And love infpir'd me first with piety.
O! thou wert all my triumph, and my pride;
My hope, my peace, my fhelter, and my guide!
Thy love (fweet study) bufy'd all my days,
And my full foul's ambition was thy praise.
Why has
my heart this fond engagement known?
Or, why did Heav'n diffolve the tie fo foon?
Whence had the charmer all his pow'r to move?
Or, why was all my breast so tun'd for love?
Oh! he could talk-'twas ecftacy to hear;
The lift'ning foul hung trembling on the ear.
Mufic's whole pow'r dwelt artless on his tongue,
Awfully foft, like fome kind angel's fong!
Pain, that but heard him speak, was charm'd to reft;
And mercy melted from the mifer's breaft:
Hours, days, and years unheeded took their flight-
For time was only measur'd by delight!
Fancy ftill paints him fresh in ev'ry grace,
But the thin fhade eludes my loft embrace;
The fhrinking vifion melts in hapless night,
And a cold horror blots my blafted fight!-
Then the palt mis'ry rifes to my view,
His death, fad fcene! will be for ever new:
Then with the quickest fenfe his pangs I feel,
And his laft accents o'er my filence steal.
My wife! my fharpeft pain, my fondest care, Heav'n, for thy fake, will hear a dying pray'r; • Will lead and comfort thee when I am dead; When from these aching eyes thy form is fled: • When these cold hands, which now thy grasp implore, • Shall tremble at the touch of thine no more.
Oh! where fhall my unfocial fpirit ftray,
How err, unbleft, along th' eternal way.
From all engagements here I now am free,
But that which keeps my ling'ring foul with thee.
• How I have lov'd, thy bleeding heart can tell, And we may meet-till which dear time, farewell!”
He ceas'd—and waiting angels caught his breath,
And his quench'd eyes dissolv'd their beams in death!
But, oh! what words have paffion to express,
What thought can feel, the rage of my distress?
Why did they tear me from the breathless clay?
I fhould have ftaid, and wept my life away.
Yet, gentle fhade! where'er thou now may'st dwell,
Where'er thy fpirit does the rest excel,
If thou canst listen to my grief, oh! take
The fofteft vows that love and truth can make-
For thee, my thoughts all pleafure fhall forego;
My tears for thee fhall ftream in fecret woe.
Far from the bufy world I will retire,
'Where mournful mem'ry feeds the filent fire:
First taught by thee the nobleft flame to prove,
The force, the life, the elegance of love!
Sacred I will to thee thy gift confine,
"Grafp thee through death, and be for ever thine !'
To speak to eyes, and paint unbody'd thought! Though deaf and dumb, blefs'd skill! reliev'd by thee, We make one fense perform the task of three; We fee, we hear, we touch the head and heart, And take, or give, what each but yields in part; With the hard laws of distance we difpenfe, And without found, apart, commune in fense; View, though confin'd, nay rule this earthly ball, And travel o'er the wide expanded all; Dead letters thus, with living notions fraught, Prove to the foul the telescopes of thought; To mortal life a deathlefs witness give, And bid all deeds and titles laft and live;
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