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* Ev'n deadly nightshade, tho' with poison fraught,
At length is found a falutary draught.
The same creative power that first display'd
His wond'rous works for our delight and aid;
His love to mortal man still gracious shows,
In ev'ry stream that glides, and herb that

grows.
At his command, Malvern, thy mountains rise,
And catch their dewy nectar from the skies;
At his command gush out thy crystal rills,
To cure the direful trajn of human ills.
On all alike their influence freely shed,
As the bright orb that gilds thy mountain's head,
The wealthy squire, whose gouty limbs are laid
On beds of down, almost of down afraid,
At this balfamic spring may soon regain
His lavish'd health, and o'er the spacious plain
Pursue the hare, or chace the miscreant fox
With winged speed o'er hills or craggy rocks.
Here to his comfort the poor helpless swain,
Rack'd with the torture of rheumatic pain,
Obtains relief without the nauseous pill,
Or that more shocking fight the doctor's bill.
When cloudy mists obscure the visual ray,
And turn to dismal night the gladsome day;
The mournful wretch with pleasure here may find
A stream that heals the lame, and cures the blind,

d See a pamphlet lately published by Mr. Gataker, where its virtues are with great candour and judgment display'd. F 3

The

The pamper'd cit, whose high luxurious food
With acrimonious poison loads his blood,
Here polishes once more his scaly skin,
And purifies the vital stream within.
Amazing truth! his wretched leprous heir,
Who undeserv'd his father's spots must wear,
Emerges clean if in this fount he lave,
As the white Syrian rose from Jordan's wave.
The latent ulcer, and the cancer dire,
That waste our flesh with flow consuming fire,
Whose subtle flames still spread from part to part,
And still elude the skilful surgeon's art;
Here check'd submit, their raging fury laid,
By streams from Nature's myftic engine play'd.
The stubborn evil, for whose flux impure
Blind bigotry at first devis’d a cure,
Heal'd by these waters needs no more demand
The foolish witchcraft of a Staart's hand;
And Brunswick's line may trust their royal cause
To reason, justice, liberty, and laws.
Should all the virtues of this spa be told,
Its praises might he wrote in lines of gold.
No more would poets their Pierian spring,
But Malvern spa in loftier numbers fing;
No more Parnassus, but the Malvern climb,
To make their di&tion pure, their thoughts sublime.
Ev’n I at these fair fountains eas'd of pain,
To you, my friend, address one votive strain;

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To you the Naiad of this balmy well
Reveals the wonders of her secret cell:

you transfers the lay, whose active mind, Like her own stream from earthly dregs refin'd, Explores a panacea for mankind.

To

Some Reflections upon hearing the Bell toll

for the Death of a FRIEND.

By Mr. J. G..
ARK!—what a mournful solemn found

Rolls murm’ring thro' the cloudy air:
It strikes the foul with awe profound,

Affects the gay, alarms the fair.

H

With what a pathos does it speak!

Affecting deep the thoughtful mind:
The golden schemes of folly break,

That hold in glittering snares mankind.

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“Tis Death's dread herald calls aloud,

Proclaims his conquest thro' the skies :
The sun retires behind a cloud,

And Nature seems to fympathize. • See a treatise lately publised by doctor Wall, concerning, the extreme purity of the water, and its great efficacy in several obftinate chronical disorders.

Reflect,

F4

Reflect, ye

reftless sons of care ! Your vain designs his hand can fpoil, Make hard oppressors lend an ear,

And wretched misers cease their toil,

For what avail vast heaps of gold,

When Death his aweful writ shall send? Tho' folly swell, and pride look bold,

The mask must drop, the farce must end.

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It is not hoary tottering age

That now lies stretch'd beneath his stroke ; The tyrant ftern, that feels his rage :

Th'oppressor's rod, that now is broke.

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But oh !-'tis generous Cynthio's bell!

Fall'n in his prime of youthful bloom : For Cynthio sounds the doleful knell,

And calls him to the silent tomb.

Cynthio!---whose happy healing art

Turn'd from his friends death's fatal blow, And shielded from that threatening dart,

Which now, alas! -- has ļaid him low.

But Cynthio's virtues ne'er can die,

They leave a grateful rich perfume : And now tranfplanted to the sky,

In heav'n's immortal gardens bloom.

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And hark!.--ah, what celestial notes,
With grateful accents charm my

ear!
As down th’ etherial music floats,

The sun breaks forth, the skies are clear,

From heav'n descends the joyful strain,

Convey'd to earth on angels wings:
To mitigate our grief and pain,

And this the theme of joy it brings :

“ Thus write (the voice from heav'n proclaims)

• The virtuous dead are ever bleft!
* Their works immortalize their names,

“ Their labours cease, and here they rest.

“ Behold, the Saviour wide display

« The trophies of his gen'rous love, " To cheer you thro' life's thorny way,

“ And lead to flowery realms above.

“ 'Tis He destroys Death's baneful iting,

“ And bids the grave's dread horrors ily; “ The choirs of heav'n his triumph fing,

“ And hail him victor thro' the sky."

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