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All, all that power would be vain,
To give thee back that life again.

Go then, and spread thy busy wing,
And flutter through the flow'rs of Spring;
Enjoy thy hour, thy little span,

And teach these truths to wanton man

Bid him attend the pris'ner's cry,

The wretch condemn'd by him to die; Bid him to breathe the word "Forgive," And let the wretched creature live.

Bid him behold the giant's might,
How great to his astonish'd sight;
But oh! how tyrannous to use
That power as the giant does!

Then may he hope at that dread bar,
Where all the world mere pris'ners are,
That mercy may by him be felt,

Which he himself to others dealt.

ON A BOY PURSUING A BUTTERFLY.

A little, gaudy butterfly,

Painted with ev'ry varied dye

That decorates his race,

With wav'ring and unsteady wing,

Was flutt'ring through the flow'rs of Spring, That give my garden grace.

Its trifling charms were far too strong

To be refus'd by one so young,

And Tom in rapture flew,

Eager to seize so gay a prize,

That dazzled thus his straining eyes.

And gave him feelings new.

With hasty step and panting heart,
With looks that fire appear'd to dart,
He closely hunts his game;

And still as oft he miss'd his prey,
More eagerly he sped his way,

His failures fann'd his flame.

One effort more his prize may gain;
Once more he tries, but tries in vain;
And in the effort falls :

His flatt'ring tempter, winged, light,
Quitted the spray with hasty flight,
And clear'd the garden wall.

With moisten'd eye, and downcast look,
Tom sought his home, his sport forsook,
And wip'd his streaming brow;
With labour tir'd, with heat oppress'd,

He sunk his little head to rest,

Unconscious where or how.

And thus through life our busy race
Pursues some glitt'ring, gaudy, chase,
In pleasure's empty train:

Caught by the gay and tempting bait,
Suppos'd her ev'ry step t' await,
We follow, but in vain.

Like Tom we try, like Tom we fail;
Like him, renew the painful toil;
Hope still our prospect cheers.
But ah! like him, with heavy sigh,
We see the simple phantom fly,

And leave us to our tears.

Sick with pursuing futile schemes, Which fly our grasp, like airy dreams, We turn our thoughts to home:

That home where disappointments cease, Where labours rest, where joys increase,

Where pain can never come.

THE TASK.

Alone in my warm Chimney-corner I sat, With a Lamb-skin laid down at my feet for a

mat:

Vex'd to death that I could not attend to my

Church,

Forc'd to leave, on a Sunday, my flock in the

lurch;

I groan'd, and I sigh'd, o'er a fit of the gout, Like a Rattle-snake twisting and writhing about. Inur'd to good health, and but yesterday well, This stroke upon me like a Thunder-bolt fell. "Fetch the doctor," I cried, "if in searching around,

In this world's ample theatre, one can be found, More skill'd in the gout than in probing a wound."

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