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« If Heav'n with children crown your dwelling,
"As mine its bounty does with you, "In fondnefs fatherly excelling,
"Th' example you have felt purfue."
He paus'd—for tenderly caressing
The darling of his wounded heart, Looks had means only of expressing
Thoughts, language never could impart.
Now night, her mournful mantle fpreading,
And dank dews, from her tresses fhedding.
When back to city follies flying,
'Midst custom's flaves he liv'd resign'd,
His face, array'd in fmiles, denying
For ferioufly around furveying
Each character, in youth and age,
That play'd upon this human stage;
(Peaceful himfelf and undeligning)
He loath'd the fcenes of guile and strife,
And felt each fecret wUh inclining
Yet to whate'er above was fated
Obediently he bow'd his foul,
He thought Heav'n only should controul.
Occasioned by seeing the Graves dressed with Flowers, at Brecknock in Wales.
"WHITHER away, fair maid!" I cry'd,
As on old Hundy's bank I lay, When, passing by me, I efpy'd
A modest maid in neat array.
Upon her red but well-turn'd arm
A littfe wicker-balket hung;
And branches ever-green and young:
The fragrant bay, the mournful yew,
The daify py'd, the violet blue,
The red pink, and the primrofe fair.
"And why that balket on your arm,
"With all thofe fragrant fweets fupply'd f"
With blulhing look, and pensive air,
•f To yonder church-yard do I haste,
"To drefs the grave where Henry fleeps;
"No maid a truer Lover blefs'd—
"No maid more faithful lover weeps.
"Stern Death forbade us to unite,
"And cut him down with ruthlefs blow;
"And now I fpeed to deck his grave,
The melancholy custom pleas'd i
She left me wrapp'd in pensive thought; Ideas fad, but foothing, rofe,
When my flow steps the church-yard fought.
There, kneeling o'er her Henry's grave,
Adorn'd with all her basket's store, The rural maiden, sighing, hung,
Her eyes with tender tears ran o'er.
She rais'd thofe eyes, fo full of tears,
Which now and then stole down her cheek _
And much to Heav'n flie would have fpoke,
Yet, though her thoughts could sind no vent,
There is, who reads each honest minds And the true heart to Him devote, 'Shall ample fatisfaction sind.
Then, gentle maiden! do not fear,
Again thy Henry thou fhalt meet S Till then thy tender talk purfue,
And strew thy greens and fiow'rs fo fweet.
And you, whom all around 1 fee,
The fame dear mournful tafk employ: Ye parents, children, hulbands, wives,
The melancholy blifs enjoy! Oh I 'tis delicious to maintain
Of friends deceas'd a due refpect! Then bring me fiow'rets—bring me greens,
Straight fhall my parents' grave be deck'd; And many a friend's (whom faithful lore
Still keeps alive within my breast)
Luxurioufly fad, I'll fee
With choicest garlands weekly drefs'J.
Come, then, the wicker-bafket bring;
Come, Memory, and with me go!
Affection's gentle hand lhall strew:
A mellow tear of foothing woe,
Shall o'er the graves fpontaneous fall;
While Heav'n the heart's still wish Audi hear,
TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN LEAVING THE UNIVERSITY.
Ere yet, ingenuous youth, thy steps retire
From Cam's fmooth margin, and the peaceful Tale, Where Science call'd thee to her studious quire,
And met thee musing in her cloisters pale; O let thy friend (and may he boast the name!)
Breathe from his artlefs reed one parting lay: A lay like this thy early virtues claim,
And this let voluntary friendlhip pay.
Yet know, the time arrives, the dang'rbus time.
Tranfplanted to the world's tempestuous clime,
There, if Amhition, pestilent and pale,
Or Luxury should taint their vernal glow; If cold felf-interest, with her chilling gale,
Should hlast th' unfolding hloffoms e'er they hlow
If mimic hues, hy Art or Fashion fpread,
Their genume simple colouring should fupply;
O may with them thefe laureate honours fade,
Then do not hlame, if, though thyfelf infpire,
The Mufe full oft purfues a meteor sire,
And vainly vent'rous, foars on waxen wing:
Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The Poet's hofom pours the fervent strain, . Till fad Reflection hlames the hasty- choice, And oft invokes Ohlivion's aid in vain.
Call we the made of Pope from that hlest how'r, Where thron'd he sits with many a tuncfi'l fage;
A/k, if he ne'er hemoans that haplefs hour
When St. John's name illumin'd Glory's page.
Ask, if the wretch who dar'd his mem'ry stain;
Deferv'd the meed that Malhro' fail'd to gain;
The Bard will tell thee, the misguided praife
E'en now, repentant of his errmg lays,
If Pope Lhrc tgh Frieudship fail'd, mdignant view,