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VERSES,

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
That fages have feen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

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.

BOADICEA,

AN ODE.

^when the Britilh warrior Queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought with an indignant mien,
Counfel of her country's gods,

Sage, beneath a fpreading oak,
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,

Ev'ry burning word he fpoke,
Full of rage, and full of grief.

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
In the blood that sbe has fpilt;

Perilh hopelefs and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thoufand states,

Soon her pride shall kifs the ground-
Hark) the Gaul is at her gates.

Other Romans shall arife,
Heedlefs of a foldier's name,

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the oath to fame,

Then the progeny that fprings
From the forests of our land,

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.

THE SHRUBBERY.

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,
Has lost its heauties and its pow'rs.

The fiint or moralist mould tread

This rr.olf-grown alley, rousing, flow;

They feek, like me, the fecret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe!

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.

The Rose had heen wasiVd, just wash'd in ashow

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumher'd the flow'r,

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,
To weep for the huds it had left with regret

On the flourishing hush were it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unsit as it was
For a nosegay, fo dripping and drown'd,

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