Superior excellence of man proclaims,
Though oft miftaking in his glorious aims.
His boafted fcience by degrees he gains,
As opening truth rewards his tirefome pains:
For that acquir'd, without the labour try'd,
Would fink it's worth, and elevate his pride.

Labour to man was as his portion given;
How juft, and how benevolent, is Heaven!
The foul from ftupid indolence to raise;
To trace the great Creator's myftic ways!
And much, O mortal! to thy curious mind,
Has time reveal'd, and much remains behind;
Leave that to Heaven, and know thy fearch confin'd.
Howe'er important thy difcoveries are,

Another age demands an equal fhare;

Number and weight, and measure to explain;
Can thy small heart this ample world contain?
Yet there has God infix'd the keen defire;
Excites, and not forbids thee to enquire:
A pleafing task! though none can comprehend
It's first beginning, or it's latest end.

How well was that advice,

Thyfelf to know,"

Afcrib'd to Heaven by fages long ago!

Thy very doubt of all these wond'rous things,

From that high monitor within thee fprings.

Daughter of Heaven, my foul! for fuch thou art,

(Not of material elements a part)

On this fair scene thy prefent fenfe employ,

But raise thy nobler hope to future joy.

Though Heaven fhall vanifh, and the ftars fhall fall,
And rolling flames diffolve this earthly ball;

The juft in happy mansions shall remain,
While worlds fhall perish, and revive again.

ODE

ODE TO MORNING.

BY MISS PENNINGTON.

HAIL,

AIL, rofeate Morn! returning light!
To thee the fable Queen of Night

Reluctant yields her fway;

And, as the quits the dappled fkies,
On glories greater glories rise,
To greet the dawning day.

O'er tufted meads gay Flora trips;
Arabia's fpices fcent her lips;

Her head with rofe-buds crown'd:
Mild Zephyr haftes to snatch a kiss;
And, fluttering with the tranfient blifs,
Wafts fragrance all around.

The dew-drops, daughters of the Morn,
With fpangles every bush adorn,

And all the broider'd vales;

Their voice to thee the linnets raise,
The lark, foft-trilling in thy praise,
Aurora, rifing, hails!

While Nature, now in lively veft
Of gloffy green, has gaily drefs'd

Each tributary plain;

While blooming flowers, and blossom❜d trees,
Soft-waving with the vernal breeze,

Exult beneath thy reign;

Shall I, with drowsy poppies crown'd,
By Sleep in filken fetters bound,
The downy god obey?

ز

Ah,

Ah, no!--Through yon embowering grove,
Or winding valley, let me rove,

And own thy chearful fway!

For fhort-liv'd are thy pleasing powers:
Pafs but a few uncertain hours,

And we no more shall trace

Thy dimpled cheek and brow ferene;
Or clouds may gloom the fmiling fcene,
And frowns deform thy face.

So in life's youthful bloomy prime,
We sport away the fleeting time,
Regardless of our fate;

But, by fome unexpected blow,
Our giddy follies we shall know,

And mourn them when too late!

ON AN URN,

DUG UP AT NORTH ELMHAM IN NORFOLK, IN AN OLD ROMAN BURIAL GROUND.

Nor will the sparkling atoms fhow

A Clodius or a Guelph':

Vain fearch! if here the fource thou'dft know

Of nobles or thyself.

The

The mould will yield no evidence,

By which thou may'ft divine, If lords or beggars iffued thence, And fill'd the ancient line.

Learn then the vanity of birth,
Condition, honours, name;

All are but made of common earth,
The fubftance juft the fame.

Bid Avarice and Ambition view
Th' extent of all their gains;
Themselves and their poffeffions too
A gallon-pot contains.

Hafte! lift thy thoughts from earthly things
To more fubftantial blifs,

And leave that groveling pride to kings,
Which ends in dirt like this.

Let Virtue be thy radiant guide,
'Twill dignify thy clay;
And raise thy afhes glorified,
When funs shall fade away.

To know what letters fpelt my name,
Is ufelefs quite to thee:

An heap of duft is all I am,

And all that thou shalt be.'

Go now, that heap of duft explore,
Measure it's grains, or weigh;
Canft thou the titles which I bore
Diftinguish in the clay?

3 X

THE

THE SUN-FLOWER AND THE IVY.

BY DR. LANGHORNE.

S duteous to the place of prayer,

A within the convent's lonely walls,

The holy fifters still repair,

What time the rofy morning calls:

So fair each morn, fo full of grace,
Within their little garden rear'd,

The flower of Phoebus turned her face
To meet the Power fhe lov'd and fear'd;

And where, along the rifing fky,

Her God in brighter glory burn'd,

Still there her fond obfervant eye,

And there her golden breast she turn'd.

When calling from their weary height
On western waves his beams to rest,
Still there fhe fought the parting fight,
And there fhe turn'd her golden breast.

But foon as Night's invidious fhade
Afar his lovely looks had borne,
With folded leaves and drooping head,
Full fore she griev'd, as one forlorn.

Such duty in a flower display'd

The holy fifters fmil'd to fee; Forgave the pagan rites it paid,

And lov'd it's fond idolatry.

But