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Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell'd;

And ever as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear;

And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date.

But misery still delights to trace
Its 'semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone ;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

The following three Poems have been omitted in their proper order.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

[1780.]

WEAK and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day,

Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;

But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;

Virtue engages his assent,

But pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view;
And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length,
And dangers little known-

A stranger to superior strength,

Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the distant coast;

The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.

AN EPISTLE

MADAM,

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TO A PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.

[1782.]

A STRANGER'S purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise.
To give the creature her Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or even to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use design'd,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent upon pleasure, heedless of its end.

But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still;

In pity to the sinners he design'd

To rescue from the ruins of mankind,

Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,

And said, "Go spend them in the vale of tears."

Oh, balmy gales of soul-reviving air,

Oh, salutary streams that murmur there,

These flowing from the fount of grace above,

Those breathed from lips of everlasting love!

The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
And sudden sorrow nips their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown
To mar delights superior to its own,
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin;
But ills of every shape and every name
Transform'd to blessings miss their cruel aim,
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast,
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a distant waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the Chief Shepherd is for ever near; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine"Twas thus in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herds around.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE TOMB OF MR HAMILTON.

[1784.]

PAUSE here, and think: a monitory rhyme
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.
Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;
Seems it to say -
"Health here has long to reign?"
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? an heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth ofttimes, healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;

And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud
Exclaims, "Prepare thee for an early shroud."

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