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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,
And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir.

How happy the lord of the manor,
That shall be of her poffeít, Sir;

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;
And besides she's but five years old, Sir.

But tho', my dear friend, she's no older,
In her face it may plainly be feen, Sir,

That this angel at five,

Will, if she's alive,
Be a goddess at fifteen, Sir.

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,


7 HAT glorious verse from Love has sprung?

How well has Indignation fung?

And can the gentle Muse,
Whilft in her once belov'd abode
I ftray, and suppliant kneel, an ode
To Gratitude refuse?

GARNIER, my friend, accept this verse,
And thou receive, well-natur'd Pearce,

All I can give of fame.
Let others, other subjects fing,
Some murd'rous chief, some tyrant king,
Humanity's my theme.

For arts like yours, employ'd by you,
Make verse on such a theme your due,

To whom indulgent Heav'n
Its fav'rite pow'r of doing good,
By you so rightly understood,
Judiciously has giv'n.

IV. Behold,

IV. Behold, obedient to your pow'r, Consuming fevers rage no more,

Nor chilling agues freeze;
The cripple dances void of pain,
The deaf in raptures hear again,
The blind transported fees.

Health at your call extends her wing,
Each healing plant, each'friendly spring,

Its various pow'r discloses;
O'er Death's approaches you prevail,
See Chloe's cheek, of late fo pale,
Blooms with returning rofes.

These gifts, my friends, which shine in you,
Are rare, yet to some chosen few

Heav'n has the same aslign'd;
Health waits on Mead's prescription still,
And Hawkins' hand, and Ranby's kill,
Are blessings to mankind.

But hearts like yours are rare indeed,
Which for another's wounds can bleed,

Another's grief can feel ;
The lover's fear, the parent's groan,
Your natures catch, and make your own,
And share the pains you heal.


But why to them, Hygeia, why
Doft thou thy cordial drop deny

Who but for others live ?
Oh, goddess, hear my pray'r, and grant
That these that health may never want,

Which they to others give.

ODE to DEATH. Translated from the

French of the King of Prussia.



ET a few years, or days perhaps,

Or moments pass with silent lapse,
And time to me fhall be no more ;
No more the sun these eyes

shall view,
Earth o'er these limbs her duft shall strew,

And life's fantastic dream be o'er.

Alas! I touch the dreadful brink,
From nature's verge impell'd I fink,

And endless darkness wraps me round!
Yes, Death is ever at my hand,
Fast by my bed he takes his stand,

And constant at my board is found.


Earth, air, and fire, and water, join
Against this fleeting life of mine,

And where for succour can I fly?
If art with flatt'ring wiles pretend
To shield me like a guardian friend,
By Art, ere Nature bids, I die,

I see this tyrant of the mind,
This idol Flesh to dust confign'd,

Once call'd from dust by pow'r divine ;
Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold
Hence dreadful spectre ! to behold

Thy aspect, is to make it mine.

And can I then with guilty pride,
Which fear nor shame can quell or hide,

This flesh ftill pamper and adorn!
Thus viewing what I soon Mall be,
Can what I am demand the knee,

Or look on aught around with scorn ?

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But then this spark that warms, that guides,
That lives, that thinks, what fate betides?

Can this be duft, a kneaded clod !
This yield to death! the soul, the mind,
That measures heav'n, and mounts the wind,

That knows at once itself and God?


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