Driven from beneath yon humble roof, Nor tale, nor friendly jibe, nor joke, All these have lost their wonted zest;- Yet though deny'd by Heav'n once more Though midst a seeming desart plac'd, "As courts or cities ever taste." THE RURAL MORALIST. THEODORE, in the works of creation well vers'd, Many plants and their habitudes knew ; And as oft he their nature and virtues rehears'd, Some sage lesson the moralist drew: "Let not mortals, (he cried) the instruction disdain, "That these lovely productions supply; "For our use, our example, they decorate the plain; "Tis for man they bud, blossom, and die! "O'er the loam-fields of Kent, their green heads to the day "A vegetive phalanx uprear; "There shortly, matur'd by the sun's genial ray, "Shall the Hop's silver floscules appear. "And see! round yon poles, firmly fixed in the "ground, "How each plant's spiral tendons entwine! "Thus the Oak by the Ivy encircled is found, "And the broad spreading Elm by the Vine! "But if from yon branches that, waving in air, "Peradventure awhile the young shoots may, "indeed, "Its assistance apparently court; "But they soon, as if highly disdainful, recede, "From the false and unstable support! "Shall a plant to which Nature has reason "deny'd, "Such an instance of prudence display, "While the Lords of creation, the vassals of " pride, "With indifference the lesson survey? "To the world's feeble succours, that quickly "must fly, "Be no longer your confidence giv'n! "But, convinced how delusive the aid they supply, Fix your hopes and affections on Heav'n!" AN EPITAPH, PLACED OVER THE BODIES OF THREE AMIABLE CHILDREN, WHO DIED IN THEIR INFANCY. A MOMENT, passenger, here cast thine eye; Beneath this stone three lovely children lie! Heav'n, in the bud, the fragrant blossoms view'd, With graces fit for purer climes endu❜d; And deemed the world unworthy of their So called them hence to their Redeemer's arms. Repent! thy Saviour's offered grace receive! reign, Or be condemned to ever-during pain! TO CARE. THOU Scourge of mortals, earth-born CARE, To life impart a loathsome zest, And poison every source of joy! Scar'd by thy frowns, no more the Muse The Poet's lonely moments cheers; With half-averted face she views The heaving breast, the trickling tears! From where thy vulture-train reside, She and her handmaid Fancy flee; Nor will the heav'n-born pair divide The empire of the mind with thee! E'en Sleep, that o'er the weary soul And flies the care-worn wretch's bed; |