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IV. They wou'd ne'er have been tir'd with gazing, And so much her charms did please, Sir,
That all of them ftaid
Till their ale grew dead,
For all must agree,
Harriet shall fee, She's a HERRIOT of the best, Sir.
VI. Then pray
make a ballad about her ; We know you have wit if you'd shew it,
Then don't be alham'd,
You can never be blam'd, For a prophet is often a poet.
VII. But why don't you make one yourself then ? I suppose I by you shall be told, Sir:
This beautiful piece,
Alas, is my niece;
That this angel at five,
Will, if she's alive,
To Mr. GARNIER and Mr. Pearce of BATH, A grateful ODE, in return for the extraordinary Kindness
and Humanity they fhewed to me and my eldest Daughter, now Lady Essex, 1753.
By the Same,
How well has Indignation fung?
And can the gentle Muse,
All I can give of fame.
To whom indulgent Heav'n
IV. Behold, obedient to your pow'r, Consuming fevers rage no more,
Nor chilling agues freeze;
Its various pow'r discloses;
Heav'n has the same aslign'd;
Another's grief can feel ;
Who but for others live ?
Which they to others give.
ODE to DEATH. Translated from the
French of the King of Prussia.
By Dr. HAWKSWORTH.
ET a few years, or days perhaps,
Or moments pass with silent lapse,
And life's fantastic dream be o'er.
Alas! I touch the dreadful brink,
And endless darkness wraps me round!
And constant at my board is found.
Earth, air, and fire, and water, join
And where for succour can I fly?
I see this tyrant of the mind,
Once call'd from dust by pow'r divine ;
Thy aspect, is to make it mine.
And can I then with guilty pride,
This flesh ftill pamper and adorn!
Or look on aught around with scorn ?
But then this spark that warms, that guides,
Can this be duft, a kneaded clod !
That knows at once itself and God?