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Where the watchman in his round

Nightly lifts his voice on high, None, accustom'd to the sound,

Wakes the sooner for his cry.

So your Verse-man I, and Clerk,

Yearly in my song proclaim
Death at hand-yourselves his mark

And the foc's unerring aim.

Duly at my time I come,

Publishing to all aloud
Soon the grave must be your home,

And your only suit, a shroud.

But the monitory strain,

Oft repeated in your ears, Seems to sound too much in vain,

Wins no notice, wakes no fears.

Can a truth, by all confessid,

Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft express'd,

Trivial as a parrot's prate ?

Pleasure's call attention wins,

Hear it often as we may ; New as ever seem our sins,

Though committed every day.

Death and Judgment, Heav'n and Hell

These alone, so often heard, No more move us than the bell,

When some stranger is interr'd.

Oh then, ere the turf or tomb

Cover us from every eye,
Spirit of instruction, come,

Make us learn that we must die !

TO JOHN JOHNSON,

ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUAT

OF HOMER.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son by me !
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,

The sculptur'd form of my old favorite Bard !
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee.

Joy too, and grief, much joy that there should be

Wise men, and learn'd, who grudge not to reward

With some applause my bold attempt, and hard, Which others scorn. Critics by courtesy !

The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine,

I lose my precious years, now soon to fail ! Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,

Proves dross when balanc'd in the Christian scale.

Be wiser thou, like our forefather Donne ;
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone !

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS BETURN FROM RAMSGATE.

THAT ocean you of late survey'd,

Those rocks I too have seen, But I, afflicted and dismay'd,

You, tranquil and serene.

You, from the flood-controlling steepa

Saw stretch'd before your view,
With conscious joy the threatening deepa

No longer such to you.

To me the waves that ceaseless broke

Upon the dangerous coast, Hoarsely and ominously spoke

Of all my treasure lost.

Your sea of troubles you have past, · And found the peaceful shore ; I, tempest toss'd, and wreck'd at last,

Come home to port no more.

LOVE ABUSED.

WHAT is there in the vale of life,
Half so delightful as a wife,
When friendship, love, and peace combine
To stamp the marriage bond divine ?
The stream of pure and genuine love
Derives its current from above ;

EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER.

219

And earth a second Eden shows,
Where'er the healing water flows.
But ah ! if from the dykes and drains
Of sensual nature's feverish veins,
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,
Impregnated with oose and mud,
Descending fast on every side,
Once mingles with the sacred tide,
Farewel the soul-enlivening scene !
The banks that wore a smiling green,
With rank defilement overspread,
Bewail their flowery beauties dead.
The stream polluted, dark and dull,
Diffused into a stygian pool,
Through life's last melancholy years
Is fed with ever flowing tears.

Complaints supply the zephyr's part,
And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY. TEARS Aow and cease not, where the good man

lies,

Till all who knew him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep,
Him, wife, friends, brothers, children, servants,

weep-
And justly _few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

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EPITAPH.

ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON. LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's

tomb, But happiest they, who win the world to come : Believers have a silent field to fight, And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. They in some nook where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell : Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.

TO COUNT GRAVINA, On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose

into Italian Verse.
MY Rose, Gravina, blooms anew,

And steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,

Will never fade again.

INSCRIPTION

For a Stone erected at the sowing of a Grove of

Oaks, at Chillington, the seat of Thomas
Gifford, Esq. 1790.
OTHER stones the era tell
When some feeble mortal fell.

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