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With songs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires.
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her, to hymn,
Whatever good and excellent she forms.




WHILE Secret leaguing nations frown around,

Ready to pour the long expected storm; While she, who wont the restless Gaul to bound,

Britannia, drooping, grows an empty form;
While on our vitals selfish parties prey,
And deep corruption eats our soul away:
Yet in the goddess of the main appears

A gleam of joy gay-flushing every grace,
As she the cordial voice of millions hears,

Rejoicing, zealous, o'er thy rising race:
Straitgh her rekindling eyes resume their fire,
The Virtues smile, the Muses tune the lyre.
But more enchanting than the Muse's song,
United Britons thy dear offspring hail :
The city triumphs through her glowing throng;

The shepherd tells his transport to the dale;
The sons of roughest toil forget their pain,
And the glad sailor cheers the midnight main.
Can aught from fair Augusta's gentle blood,

And thine, thou friend of liberty! be born: Can aught save what is lovely, generous, good; What will, at once, defend us and adorn? From thence prophetic joy new Edwards eyes, New Henrys, Annas, and Elizas rise.

May Fate my fond devoted days extend,'

To sing the promis'd glories of thy reign! What though, by years depress'd, my Muse might bend;

My heart will teach her still a nobler strain: How, with recover'd Britain, will she soar, When France insults, and Spain shall rob no






As those we love decay, we die in part,
String after string is sever'd from the heart;
Till loosen'd life, at last, but breathing clay,
Without one pang is glad to fall away.

Unhappy he, who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,
Dragg'd lingering on from partial death to death,
Till, dying, all he can resign is breath.

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And vigour of mind,

That ever exalted the most heroical man; Who having lived the pride and delight of her parents,

The joy, the consolation, and pattern of her friends, A mistress not only of the English and French, But in a high degree of the Greek and Roman learning,

Without vanity or pedantry,

At the age of eighteen,

After a tedious, painful, desperate illness,
Which, with a Roman spirit,

And a Christian resignation,

She endured so calmly, that she seemed insensible To all pain and suffering, except that of her friends,

Gave up her innocent soul to her Creator, And left to her mother, who erected this monument, The memory of her virtues for her greatest support; Virtues which, in her sex and station of life, Were all that could be practised, And more than will be believed, Except by those who know what this inscription relates.

See what is said of this lady in Summer.

HERE, Stanley, rest, escap'd this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain:
No more sweet patience, feigning oft relief,
Lights thy sick eye, to cheat a parent's grief :
With tender art, to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own:
Now well-earn'd peace is thine, and bliss sincere :
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!

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O, born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm, To show us Virtue in her fairest form; To show us artless Reason's moral reign, What boastful Science arrogates in vain; Th' obedient passions knowing each their part; Calm light the head, and harmony the heart!

Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey, When a few suns have roll'd their cares away, Tir'd with vain life, will close the willing eye: 'Tis the great birth-right of mankind to die. Blest be the bark! that wafts us to the shore, Where death-divided friends shall part no more: To join thee there, here with thy dust repose, Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.



LECTOR OF STRADDISHALL, IN SUFFOLK, 1738. Tuus safely low, my friend, thou can'st not fall: Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all; No noise, no care, no vanity, no strife; Men, woods, and fields, all breathe untroubled life. Then keep each passion, down, however dear; Trust me the tender are the most severe. Guard, while 'tis thine, thy philosophic ease, And ask no joy but that of virtuous peace; That bids defiance to the storms of Fate: High bliss is only for a higher state.



WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
O, let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he rais'd from Earth the drooping heart.
Think not, when all your scanty stores afford,
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempest bears;
What farther shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe these shivering limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?'
And the fair body its investing weed?

Behold! and look away your low despair-
See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong,
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song;
Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.

To him they sing, when Spring renews the plain,
To him they cry in Winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain:
He hears the gay, and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.

Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race:
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!

If, ceaseless, thus the fowis of Heaven he feeds If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads; Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say; Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?



SWEET, sleeky Doctor! dear pacific soul!
Lay at the beef, and suck the vital bowl!
Still let th' involving smoke around thee fly,
And broad-look'd dulness settle in thine eye.
Ah! soft in down these dainty limbs repose,
And in the very lap of slumber doze;
But chiefly on the lazy day of grace,
Call forth the lambent glories of thy face;
If aught the thoughts of dinner can prevail,
And sure the Sunday's dinner cannot fail.
To the thin church in sleepy pomp proceed,
And lean on the lethargic book thy head.
These eyes wipe often ith the hallow'd lawn,
Profoundly nod, immeasurably yawn.
Slow let the prayers by thy meek lips be sung,
Nor let thy thoughts be distanc'd by thy tongue
If ere the lingerers are within a call,
Or if on prayers thou deign'st to think at all.
Yet-only yet-the swimming head we bend;
But when serene, the pulpit you ascend,
Through every joint a gentle borrour creeps,
And round you the consenting audience sleeps.
So when an ass with sluggish front appears,
The horses start, and prick their quivering ears;
But soon as e'er the sage is heard to bray,
The fields all thunder, and they bound away.


Hr's not the Happy Man, to whom is given
A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven;
Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise,
And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes;
Whose table flows with hospitable cheer,
And all the various bounty of the year; [Spring,
Whose vallies smile, whose gardens breathe the
Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing;
For whom the cooling shade in Summer twines,
From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn pours
While his full cellars give their generous wines;
A golden tide into his swelling stores:
Whose Winter laughs; for whom the liberal gales
Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails;
When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves;
While youth, and health, and vigour, string his


Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combin'd, Can make the Happy Man, without the mind;

Where Judgment sits clear sighted, and surveys
The chain of Reason with unerring gaze;
Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes,
His fairer scenes, and bolder figures rise;
Where social Love exerts her soft command,
And plays the passions with a tender hand,
Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife,
And all the moral harmony of life.

Nor canst thou, Doddington, this truth decline, Thine is the fortune, and the mind is thine.

O, tell her what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind;
O, tell her that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refin'd.
Not her own guardian angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,
Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own sighs in prayer.

But, if, at first, her virgin fear

Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship sooth her earTrue love and friendship are the same.


By Rufus' Hall, where Thames polluted flows,
Provok'd, the Genius of the river rose,
And thus exclaim'd: "Have I, ye British swains,
Have I for ages lav'd your fertile plains?
Giv'n herds, and flocks, and villages increase,
And fed a richer than a golden fleece?
Have I, ye merchants, with each swelling tide,
Pour'd Afric's treasure in, and India's pride?
Lent you the fruit of every nation's toil?
Made every climate yours, and every soil?
Yet pilfer'd from the poor, by gaming base,
Yet must a Wooden Bridge my waves disgrace?
Tell not to foreign streams the shameful tale,
And be it publish'd in no Gallic vale."
He said; and, plunging to his crystal dome,
White o'er his head the circling waters foam.


ONE day the god of fond desire,

On mischief bent, to Damon said, "Why not disclose your tender fire,

Not own it to the lovely maid?"

The shepherd mark'd his treacherous art, And, softly-sighing, thus reply'd: "Tis true, you have subdued my heart, But shall not triumph o'er my pride." "The slave, in private only bears

Your bondage, who his love conceals; But when his passion he declares,

You drag him at your chariot-wheels."


HARD is the fate of him who loves,
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,
But to the sympathetic groves,

But to the lonely listening plain.
Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Oh! when her footsteps next are seen
In flowery tracts along the mead,

In fresher mazes o'er the green,

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,

To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lillies waft a gale,

And sigh my sorrows in her ear.


UNLESS with my Amanda blest,

In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast,

In vain I rear the breathing flower: Awaken'd by the genial year,

In vain the birds around me sing; In vain the freshening fields appear: Without my love there is no spring.


For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,
And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish, and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy, still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,

To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;

All other blessings I resign,
Make but the dear Amanda mine.


COME, gentle god of soft desire,

Come and possess my happy breast!
Not, fury-like, in flames and fire,
In rapture, rage, and nonsense drest.
These are the vain disguise of love;

And, or bespeak dissembled pains,
Or else a fleeting passion prove-
The frantic fury of the veins.

But come in friendship's angel-guise:
Yet dearer thou than friendship art:
More tender spirit in thy eyes,

More sweet emotions at the heart,

O, come with goodness in thy train,
With peace, and transport void of storm,
And, would'st thou me for ever gain,
Put on Amanda's winning form.




COME, gentle Venus! and assuage
A warring world, a bleeding age.
For Nature lives beneath thy ray,
The wintery tempests haste away,
A lucid calm invests the sca,
Thy native deep is full of thee:

The flowering Earth where'er you fly,
Is all o'er Spring, all Sun the sky.
A genial spirit warms the breeze;
Unseen among the blooming trees,
The feather'd lovers tune their throat,
The desert growls a soften'd note,
Glad o'er the meads the cattle bound,
And love and harmony go round.

But chief into the human heart
You strike the dear delicious dart;
You teach us pleasing pangs to know,
To languish in luxurious woe,
To feel the generous passions rise,
Grow good by gazing, mild by sighs;
Fach happy moment to improve,
And fill the perfect year with love.

Come, thou delight of Heaven and Earth!
To whom all creatures owe their birth;
Oh, come, sweet smiling! tender, come!
And yet prevent our final doon.
For long the furious god of war
Flas crush'd us with his iron car,
Has rag'd along our ruin'd plains,
Jas foil'd them with his cruel stains,
Has sunk our youth in endless sleep,
And made the widow'd virgin weep.
Now let him feel thy wonted charms;
Oh, take him to thy twining arms!
And, while thy bosom heaves on his,
While deep he prints the humid kiss,
Ah, then! his stormy heart control,
And sigh thyself into his soul.


O Nightingale, best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee,
Blest in the full possession of thy love:

O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me!
'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate:
I love a maid who all my bosom charms,
Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;
Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms.
You, happy birds by Nature's simple laws
Lead your soft lives, sustain'd by Nature's

You dwell where ever roving fancy draws,

And love and song is all your pleasing care: But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should


And hence, in vain 1 languish for my bride; O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.



THE wanton's charms however bright,
Are like the false illusive light,

Whose flattering unauspicious blaze

To precipices oft betrays :

But that sweet ray your beauties dart,

Which clears the mind, and cieans the heart,
Is like the sacred queen of night,
Who pours a lovely gentle light
Wide o'er the dark, by wanderers blest,
Conducting them to peace and rest.

A vicious love depraves the mind,
'Tis anguish, guilt, and folly join'd;
But Seraphina's eyes dispense
A mild and gracious influence;
Such as in visions angels shed
Around the heaven-illumin'd head.
To love thee, Seraphina, sure
Is to be tender, happy, pure;
'Tis from low pass ons to escape,
And woo bright virtue's fairest shape;
'Tis ecstasy with wisdom join'd;
And heaven infus'd into the mind.

ODE ON ÆOLUS's HARP1. ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid, With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid, Who dy'd of love, these sweet complainings part. But, hark! that strain was of a graver tone, On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he the sacred bard', who sat alone,


In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their And to such sadly solemn notes are strung [plaint; Angelic harps, to sooth a dying saint. Methinks I hear the full celestial choir, Through Heaven's high dome their awful anthem Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise. Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind, [string, Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude,
Companion of the wise and good,
Bat, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.

Tolus's Harp is a musical instrument, which plays with the wind, invented by Mr. Oswald; its properties are fully described in the Castle of Indolence.

2 Jeremiah.

Oh how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale yon fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky,
A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rivall'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-beut rose is born;
And while meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landcape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the sage, and swain;
Plain Innocence in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:
Religion's beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell! And in thy deep recesses dwell; Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, When Meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London's spiry turrets rise, Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain, Then shield me in the woods again.

If virtue is the theme, we sudden glow
With generous flame: and, what we feel, we grow.
If vice she paints, indiguaut passions rise:
The villain sees himself with lothing eyes.
His soul starts, conscious, at another's groan:
And the pale tyrant trembles on his throne.

To-night our meaning scene attempts to show
What fell events from dark suspicion flow;
Chief when it taints a lawless monarch's mind,
To the false herd of flattering slaves confin'd.
The soul sinks gradual to so dire a state,
Ev'n excellence but serves to feed its hate:
To hate remorseless, cruelty succeeds,
And every worth, and every virtue bleeds.
Behold, our author at your bar appears,
His modest hopes depress'd by conscious fears.
Faults he has many-But to balauce those,
His verse with heart-felt love of virtue glows,
All slighter errours let indulgence spare:
And be his equal trial full and fair.
For this best British privilege we call ;
Then-as he merits, let him stand, or fall.



REFLECTING on thy worth, methinks I find,
Thy various Seasons in their author's mind.
Spring opes her blossoms, various as thy Muse,
And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews.
Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows,
And o'er cach page a tawny ripeness throws.
Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains,
Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains.
Winter-but that no semblance takes from thee;
That hoary season yields a type of me.
Shatter'd by time's bleak storms 1 withering lay,
Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay!
Vet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.



SINCE Athens first began to draw mankind,
To picture life, and show th' impassion'd mind;
The truly wise have ever deem'd the stage
The moral school of each enlighten'd age.
There, in full poinp, the tragic Muse appears,
Queen of soft sorrows, and of useful fears.
Faint is the lesson reason'd rules impart ;
She pours it strong and instant through the heart.



OTHERS to marble may their glory owe,
And boast those honours Sculpture can bestow;
Short-liv'd renown! that every moment must
Sink with its emblem, and consume to dust!
But Thomson needs no artist to engrave,
From dumb oblivion no device to save;
Such vulgar aids let names inferior ask;
Nature for him assumes herself the task;
The Seasons are his monuments of fame,
With them to flourish, as from them it came.

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