IV.

They wou'd ne'er have been tir'd with gazing, And fo much her charms did please, Sir,

That all of them ftaid

Till their ale grew dead,

And cold was their toafted cheese, Sir.

V.

How happy the lord of the manor,

That fhall be of her poffeft, Sir;

For all must agree,

Who my HARRIET fhall 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 asham'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 fuppofe I by you shall be told, Sir:

This beautiful piece,

Alas, is my niece;

And befides she's but five years old, Sir.

VIII.

But tho', my dear friend, fhe's no older,
In her face it may plainly be seen, Sir,
That this angel at five,

Will, if fhe'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.

WHAT

By the Same.

I.

HAT glorious verfe from Love has fprung?
How well has Indignation fung?

And can the gentle Mufe,

Whilft in her once belov'd abode

I ftray, and fuppliant kneel, an ode
To Gratitude refuse?

II.

GARNIER, my friend, accept this verse,
And thou receive, well-natur'd PEARCE,
All I can give of fame.

Let others, other fubjects fing,

Some murd'rous chief, fome tyrant king,

Humanity's my theme.

III.

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

To whom indulgent Heav'n

Its fav'rite pow'r of doing good,
By you fo rightly understood,

Judiciously has giv'n.

IV. Behold,

IV.

Behold, obedient to your pow'r,
Confuming fevers rage no more,

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

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.

VI.

Thefe gifts, my friends, which fhine in you,
Are rare, yet to fome chofen few

Heav'n has the fame aflign'd;

Health waits on Mead's prescription ftill,
And Hawkins' hand, and Ranby's skill,
Are bleffings to mankind.
VII.

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.

VIII. But

Oh, goddess, hear my pray'r, and grant
That these that health may never want,
Which they to others give.

ODE to DEATH. Tranflated from the
FRENCH of the King of PRUSSIA.

By Dr. HAWKSWORTH.

ET a few years, or days perhaps,

YE

Yor moments pafs with filent lapfe,

Or moments

And time to me fhall be no more;

No more the fun thefe eyes fhall view,
Earth o'er thefe limbs her duft fhall ftrew,
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,

Faft by my bed he takes his ftand,

And conftant at my board is found.

Earth,

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

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

I fee this tyrant of the mind,
This idol Flesh to duft confign'd,

Once call'd from dust by pow'r divine;
Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold-
Hence dreadful spectre ! to behold
Thy afpect, 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 foon fhall be,
Can what I am demand the knee,

Or look on aught around with scorn?

But then this fpark that warms, that guides,
That lives, that thinks, what fate betides ?
Can this be duft, a kneaded clod!
This yield to death! the foul, the mind,
That measures heav'n, and mounts the wind,

That knows at once itself and God?

Great