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Ev'n deadly nightfhade, tho' with poifon fraught,
At length is found a falutary draught.
The fame creative power that first display'd
His wond'rous works for our delight and aid;
His love to mortal man ftill gracious shows,
In ev'ry ftream that glides, and herb that grows.
At his command, Malvern, thy mountains rife,
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 fquire, whofe gouty limbs are laid
On beds of down, almoft of down afraid,
At this balfamic fpring may foon regain
His lavish'd health, and o'er the fpacious plain
Purfue 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 obfcure the visual ray,
And turn to difmal night the gladfome day;
The mournful wretch with pleasure here may find
A ftream that heals the lame, and cures the blind.

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

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The pamper'd cit, whofe high luxurious food
With acrimonious poifon loads his blood,
Here polishes once more his fcaly fkin,
And purifies the vital ftream within.
Amazing truth! his wretched leprous heir,
Who undeferv'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 confuming fire,
Whofe fubtle flames still spread from part to part,
And still elude the skilful furgeon's art ;
Here check'd fubmit, their raging fury laid,
By ftreams from Nature's myftic engine play'd.
The stubborn evil, for whofe flux impure
Blind bigotry at first devis'd a cure,

Heal'd by thefe waters needs no more demand
The foolish witchcraft of a Stuart's hand;
And Brunswick's line may truft their royal caufe
To reafon, juftice, liberty, and laws.
Should all the virtues of this spa be told,
Its praises might be wrote in lines of gold.
No more would poets their Pierian spring,
But Malvern fpa in loftier numbers fing;
No more Parnaffus, but the Malvern climb,
To make their diction pure, their thoughts fublime.
Ev'n I at thefe fair fountains eas'd of pain,

To you, my friend, addrefs one votive ftrain:

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

To you transfers the lay, whofe active mind,

Like her own stream from earthly dregs refin❜d,
Explores a panacea for mankind.

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Some Reflections upon hearing the Bell toll for the Death of a FRIEND.

By Mr. J. G.

ARK! -what a mournful folemn found

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Rolls murm'ring thro' the cloudy air:

It strikes the foul with awe profound,

Affects the gay, alarms the fair.

With what a pathos does it speak!
Affecting deep the thoughtful mind:
The golden schemes of folly break,
That hold in glittering fnares mankind.

'Tis Death's dread herald calls aloud,

Proclaims his conqueft thro' the skies;

The fun retires behind a cloud,

And Nature feems to fympathize.

See a treatife lately published by doctor Wall, concerning the extreme purity of the water, and its great efficacy in feveral obftinate chronical diforders.

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Reflect,

Reflect, ye reftlefs fons of care!
Your vain defigns his hand can spoil,
Make hard oppreffors lend an ear,

And wretched mifers cease their toil.

For what avail vaft heaps of gold,

When Death his aweful writ shall send?
Tho' folly fwell, and pride look bold,
The mask must drop, the farce must end.

It is not hoary tottering age

That now lies ftretch'd beneath his ftroke

The tyrant ftern, that feels his rage:

Th' oppreffor'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 founds the doleful knell, And calls him to the filent tomb.

Cynthio!---whofe happy healing art

Turn'd from his friends death's fatal blow, And shielded from that threatening dart, Which now, alas!-has laid 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.

And

And hark !---ah, what celestial notes,
With grateful accents charm my ear!
As down th' etherial mufic floats,

The fun breaks forth, the skies are clear,

From heav'n defcends the joyful ftrain,
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 ceafe, and here they reft.

"Behold, the Saviour wide display

"The trophies of his gen'rous love,

"To cheer thro' life's thorny way,

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"And lead to flowery realms above.

""Tis He deftroys Death's baneful fting,
"And bids the grave's dread horrors fly,
"The choirs of heav'n his triumph fing,
"And hail him victor thro' the sky."

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