COWPER. 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. O Solitude! where are the charms' That fages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone. again! How foon wou'd I tafte you Religion! what treasure untold Refides in that heav'nly word! More precious than filver 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 figh'd at the found of a knell, Or fmil'd when a fabbath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your fport, Convey to this defolate shore, Some cordial endearing report Of a land I fhall vifit no more. Though a friend I am never to fee. How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the fpeed of its flight, The tempeft itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I feem to be there; But alas! rècollection at hand Soon hurries me back to defpair. But the fea-fowl is gone to her neft, The beaft is laid down in his lair, E'en here is a feafon of reft, And I to my cabbin repair. There is mercy in every place, And reconciles man to his lot BOADICEA, AN ODE. WHEN the British warrior Queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sage, beneath a spreading oak, Princefs! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchlefs wrongs, 'Tis because refentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish-write that word Rome for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states, Soon her pride shall kifs the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates. Other Romans fhall arife, Heedlefs of a soldier's name, Sounds, not arms, fhall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions, Cæfar never knew, Such the bard's prophetic words, Heav'n awards the vengeance due, Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you. THE SHRUBBERY. Written in a Time of Affliction. OH, happy fhades-to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the fcene that offers reft, And heart that cannot reft, agree! This glaffy stream, that spreading pine, Thofe alders quiv'ring to the breeze, Might foothe a foul lefs hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could pleafe, But fix'd unalterable care Foregoes not what the feels within, Shows the fame fadness ev'ry where, And flights the feafon and the scene. For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, Has loft its beauties and its pow'rs. The faint or moralift fhould tread This moff-grown alley, mufing, flow; Me fruitful scenes and profpects waste THE ROSE. THE Rofe had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r, Which Mary to Anna convey'd, The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet And it feem'd, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd, |