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If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear, o
That pity had engender'd, drop one here.
This man was happy—had the World’s good word,
And with it ev'ry joy it can afford;
Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife,
Which most should sweeten his untroubled life;
Politely learn'd, and of agentle race,
Good breeding and good sense gave all the grace,
And whether at the toilette of the fair,
He laugh’d and trifled, made him welcome there,
Or if in masculine debate he shar'd,
Ensur’d him mute attention and regard,
Alas how chang'd Expressive of his mind,
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclin’d;
Those awful syllables, Hell, death, and sin,
Though whisper’d, plainly tell what works within;
That Conscience there performs her proper part,
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart;
Forsaking, and forsaken of all friends,
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends;
Hard task for one who lately knew no care,
And harder still as learnt beneath despair;
His hours no longer pass unmark'd away,
A dark importance saddens ev'ry day;
He hears the notice of the clock perplex’d,
And cries, Perhaps eternity strikes next;
Sweet musick is no longer musick here,
And laughter sounds like madness in his ear:
His grief the World of all her pow'r disarms,
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms:
God's holy word, once trivial in his view,
Now by the voice of his experience true,

Vol. I. 11*

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Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone
Must spring that hope he pants to make his owu.
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad;
Say man's a worm, and pow'r belongs to God.
As when a felon, whom his country’s laws
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause,
Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears,
The shameful close of all his misspent years;
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne,
A tempestusher in the dreadful morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play,
The thunder seems to summon him away,
The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies:
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost,
When Hope, long ling’ring, at last yields the ghost,
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear,
He drops at once his fetters and his fear;
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedev his cheeks.
Joy, far superiour joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul
Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made whole.
*Tis Heav'n, all Heav'n descending on the wings
Of the glad legions of the King of kings;
Tis more—'tis God diffus’d through ev’ry part,
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart.
O welcome now the Sun’s once hated light,
His noonday beams were never half so bright.
Notkindred minds alone are call'd to employ
Their hours, their days, in list’ning to his joy;

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Unconscious nature, all that he surveys, [praise.
Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his
These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth,
The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth;
These move the censure and illib'ral grin
Of fools, that hate thee and delight in sin: [pole,
But these shall last when night has quench'd the
And Heav'n is all departed as a scroll. -
And when, as Justice has long since decreed,
This Earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed,
Then these thy glorious works, and they who share
That hope, which can alone exclude despair,
Shall live exempt from weakness and decay,
The brightest wonders of an endless day.
Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong
To him, that blends no fable with his song,)
Whose lines uniting, by an honestart,
The faithful monitor's and poet's part,
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind,
And, while they captivate, inform the mind:
Still happier, if he till a thankful soil,
And fruit reward his honourable toil:
But happier far, who comfort those, that wait
To hear plain truth at Judah’s hallow'd gate:
Their language simple, as their manners meek,
No shining ornaments have they to seek;
Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waste,
In sorting flow’rs to suit a fickle taste;
But while they speak the wisdom of the skies,
Which art can only darken and disguise,
Th’ abundant harvest, recompense divine,
IRepays their work—the gleaning only mine.

CHARITY.

* Quo nihil majus meliusve terris
Fata donavére, bonique divi;
Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum
Tempora priscum.'
Hor. Lib, iv. Od, 2.

FAIREST and foremost of the train, that wait On man's most dignified and happiest state, Whether we name thee Charity or Love, Chief grace below, and all in all above, Prosper (I press thee with a pow'rful plea) A task I venture on, impell’d by thee; O never seen but in thy blest effects, Or felt but in the soul that Heav'n selects; Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known To other hearts, must have thee in his own. Come, prompt me with benevolent desires, Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires, And, though disgrac'd and slighted, to redeem A poet’s name, by making thee the theme.

God, working ever on a social plan, By various ties attaches man to man:

He made at first, though free and unconfin'd,
One man the common father of the kind;
That ev'ry tribe, though plac'd as he sees best,
Where seas or deserts part them from the rest,
Diff'ring in language, manners, or in face,
Might feel themselves allied to all the race.
When Cook-lamented, and with tears as just-
As ever mingled with heroick dust,-
Steer’d Britain’s oak into a world unknown,
And in his country’s glory sought his own,
Wherever he found man, to nature true,
The rights of man were sacredin his view;
He sooth'd with gifts, and greeted with a smile,
The simple native of the new-found isfe;
He spurn'd the wretch, that slighted or withstood
The tender argument of kindred blood,
Nor would endure, that any should control
His freeborn brethren of the southern pole.
But though some nobler minds a law respect,
That none shall with impunity neglect,
In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet,
To thwart its influence, and its end defeat.
While Cook is lov’d for savage lives he sav’d,
See Cortez odious fora world enslav'd 1
Where wast thou then, sweet Charity where then,
Thou tutelary friend of helpless men
Wast thou in monkish cells and nunn’ries found,
Or building hospitals on English ground?
No.—Mammon makes the World his legatee
Through fear, not love; and Heav'n abhors the fee,
Wherever found, (and all men need thy care,)
Norage nor infancy could find thee there.

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