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To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies,
To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies.
Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice,
Hear him o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice ;
No womanish or wailing grief has part,
No, not a moment, in his royal heart;
"Tis manly music such as martyrs make,
Suffering with gladness for a Saviour's sake ;
His soul exults, hope animates his lays,
The sense of mercy kindles into praise
And wilds, familiar with a lion's roar,
Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before:
"Tis love like his, that can alone defeat
The foes of man, or make a desert sweet.
Religion does not censure or exclude
Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursued ;
To study culture, and with artful toil
To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil
To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands
The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands;
To cherish virtue in an humble state,
And share the joys your bounty may create;
To mark the matchless workings of the power
That shuts within its seed the futare flower,
Bids these in excellence of form excel,
In colour these, and those delight the smell,
Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies,
To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes ;
To teach the canvass innocent deceit,
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet-
These, these are arte pursued without a crime,
That leave no stain upon the wing of Time.

Me poetry (or rather notes that aim
Feebly and vainly at poetic fame)
Employs, shut out fro more important views,
Fast by the banks of the slow winding Ouse :
Content if thus sequester'd I may raise
A monitor's though not a poet's praise,
And while I tesch an art too little known,
To close life wisely, may not waste my own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS;

OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

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Vena addressed to a country clergyman, complaining of the db

agreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the
dues at the parsonage.
COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,

To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,

The burden of my song.
The priest he merry is and blithe,

Three quarters of the year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,

When tithing time draws near.
He then is full of frights and fears,

As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears

He heaves up many a sigh.
For then the farmers come jog, jog,

Along the miry road,
Each heart as lieavy as a log,

To make their payments good.
In sooth, the sorrow of such days

Is not to be express'd,
When he that takes, and he that pays

Are both alike distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at his gates,

The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-

Ho trembles at the sight.
And well he may, for well he knows

Each bumpkin of the clan,
Insteud of paying what he owes,

Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come-each makes his leg,

And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,

And not to quit a score.

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• And how does miss and madam do.

The little boy and all ?'
• An tight and well. And how do you,

Good Mr. What-d'ye call ?'
The dinner comes, and down they sit:

Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;

It is no time to joke.
Ono wipes his nose upon his sleeve,

One spits upon the floor,
Yet, not to give offence or grieve,

Holds up the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they are dull

And lumpish still as ever;
Liko barrels with their bellies full,

They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins :

Come, neighbours, we must wag
The money chinks, down drop their chins,

Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost

And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost,

By maggots at the tail.
Quoth one, 'A rarer man than you

In pulpit none shall hear:
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,

You sell it plaguy dear.'
O why are farmers made so coarse,

Or clergy made so fine?
A kick, that scarce would move a horna,

May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home ;

Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.

H

SONNET,
ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and Interesting Delivery of the D

Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lord COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometim

Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England Let verse at length yield thee thy just rewa Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard

Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers; but silence honour Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head : and couldst with mus

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utteranc

of others' speech, but magic of thy own

LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARW

Author of The Botanic Garden.'

Two Poeta (poets, by report,

Not oft so well agree)
Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!

Conspire to bonour Thoe.
They best can judge a poet's worth

Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.
We therefore, pleased, extol thy song,

Though various, yet complete,
Rich in embellishment, as strong

And learned as 'tis sweet. • Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accos No envy mingles with our praise,

these lines.

Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would—they must at thine.
But we, in mutual bondage knit

Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundiced eye;
And deem the bard, whoe'er he be,

And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,

Unworthy of his own.

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ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The birds put off their every hue,
To dress a room for Montagu.

The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes ;
The pheasant plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The cock his arch'd tail's azure show;
And, river blanch'd, the swan his snow
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,
Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But, screen'd from every storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.

To the same patroness resort,
Secure of favour at her court,
Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought,

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