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Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez.
I AM monarch of all I furvey,
My right there is none to difpute, From the centre all round to the fea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
0 Solitude! where are the charms
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
1 am out of humanity's reach,
I must sinilh my journey alone. Never hear the fweet music of fpeech,
I start at the found of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference fee, They are fo unacquainted with man,
Their tamenefs is fhocking to me. Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of a dove,
How foon wou'd I taste you again I My forrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth. Religion! what treafure untold
Refides in that heiv'n y word! More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford. But the found of the church-going bell
Thefe vallies and rocks never heard, Ne'er sigh'd at the found of a lentil,
Or fmil'd when a fabbath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your fport,
Convey to t hi b defolate lhore* Some cordial endearmg report
Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends do they now and then fend
A with ora thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to fee. How fleet is a glance of the mind I
Compnr'd with the fpeed of its flight, The tempest itfelf lags behind,
And the fwift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my Owb native Kmd,
in a moment I feem to be there; But alas! rccillection at h.ind
Soon hurries me b:\ck to defpair. But the fea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair, E'en here is a feafon of rest,
And I to my cabbin repair. There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought I Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
^when the Britilh warrior Queen,
Sought with an indignant mien,
Sage, beneath a fpreading oak,
Ev'ry burning word he fpoke,
Princefs! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchlefs wrongs, 'Tis becaufe refentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
Rome fhall perish—write that word
Perilh hopelefs and abhorr'd,
Rome for empire far renown'd,
Soon her pride shall kifs the ground-
Other Romans shall arife,
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Then the progeny that fprings
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.
Regions, Cæfar never knew,
Thy posterity fliall fway, Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial sire, Bending as he fweeps the chords
Of his fweet, but awful lyre. She with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bofom glow, Rufh'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. Rufsians, pitilefs as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due, Empire is on usbestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
Written in a Time of Affliction.
Cdh, happy fhades—to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the fcene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree! This glasfy stream, that fpreading pine,
Thofe alders quiv'ring to the breeze, Might foothe a foul lefs hurt than mine,
And piease, if any thing could pleafe.
But sixM unalterahle care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the fame fadnefs ev'ry wheie,
And flights the feason and the fcene.
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace poflefs'd these silent how'rs,
Her animating fmile withdrawn,
The fiint or moralist mould tread
This rr.olf-grown alley, rousing, flow;
They feek, like me, the fecret shade,
Me fruitful fcenes and profpects waste
Alike admonish not to ream j These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of forrows yet to come.
The Rose had heen wasiVd, just wash'd in ashow
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
And weigh'd down its heautiful head.
The cup was all sill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it feem'd, to a fanciful view,
On the flourishing hush were it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unsit as it was