ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL.
Pursue the search, and you will find Good sense and knowledge of mankind To be at least expedient; And, after summing all the rest, Religion ruling in the breast A principal ingredient.
The noblest friendship ever shewn The Saviour's history makes known, Though some have turn'd and turn'd it: And, whether being crazed or blind, Or seeking with a bias'd mind,
Have not, it seems, discern'd it.
O, Friendship, if my soul forego Thy dear delights while here below; To mortify and grieve me, May I myself at last appear Unworthy, base, and insincere, Or may my friend deceive me!
WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.
Go-thou art all unfit to share
The pleasures of this place With such as its old tenants are, Creatures of gentler race.
The squirrel here his hoard provides, Aware of wintry storms,
And woodpeckers explore the sides
Of rugged oaks for worms.
The sheep here smoothes the knotted thorn,
With frictions of her fleece;
And here I wander eve and morn,
Like her a friend to peace.
Ah!--I could pity thee exiled
From this secure retreat
I would not lose it to be styled The happiest of the great.
But thou canst taste no calm delight; Thy pleasure is to shew
Thy magnanimity in fight, Thy prowess-therefore go-
I care not whether east or north, So I no more may find thee; The angry Muse thus sings thee forth, And claps the gate behind thee.
WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATion of his majesTY'S HAPPY RECOVERY.
I RANSACK'D, for a theme of song, Much ancient chronicle, and long; I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields, Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast Prowess to dissipate a host:
Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them shared Already by some happier bard.
To modern times, with Truth to guide My busy search, I next applied; Here cities won, and fleets dispersed, Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed, Deeds of unperishing renown, Our fathers' triumphs and our own.
Thus, as the bee, from bank to bower, Assiduous sips at every flower, But rests on none, till that be found, Where most nectareous sweets abound, So I from theme to theme display'd
In many a page historic stray'd, Siege after siege, fight after fight, Contemplating with small delight (For feats of sanguinary hue Not always glitter in my view); Till settling on the current year I found the far-sought treasure near, A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to ennoble even mine,
In memorable eighty-nine.
The spring of eighty-nine shall be An era cherish'd long by me, Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board; For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling state With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heaven, that cried-Restore! Chased, never to assemble more: And far the richest crown on earth, If valued by its wearer's worth, The symbol of a righteous reign, Sat fast on George's brows again.
Then peace and joy again possess'd Our Queen's long-agitated breast; Such joy and peace as can be known By sufferers like herself alone, Who losing, or supposing lost, The good on earth they valued most, For that dear sorrow's sake forego All hope of happiness below, Then suddenly regain the prize, And flash thanksgivings to the skies!
O, Queen of Albion, queen of isles! Since all thy tears were changed to smiles, The eyes, that never saw thee, shine With joy not unallied to thine, Transports not chargeable with art Illume the land's remotest part, And strangers to the air of courts, Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd prayers, That gilds thy features, shew in theirs. If they, who on thy state attend, Awe-struck, before thy presence bend "Tis but the natural effect
Of grandeur that ensures respect; But she is something more than queen Who is beloved where never seen.
FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL
HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven thy dwelling-place,
From infants made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face.
Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear,-but O impart To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart, And learn as well as hear!
For if vain thoughts the minds engage Of older far than we,
What hope, that, at our heedless age, Our minds should e'er be free?
Much hope, if thou our spirits take Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make, And babes as wise as they.
Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, A sun that ne'er declines,
And be thy mercies shower'd on those, Who placed us where it shines.
SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILI OF MORTALITY OF THE FARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON ; FOR THE YEAR 1787.
Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperam tabernas, Regumque turres.-Hor.
Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.
WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done, Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail, That so much death appears ?
No: these were vigorous as their sires, Nor plague not famine came; This annual tribute Death requires, And never waives his claim.
Like crowded forest-trees we stand, And some are mark'd to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command, And soon shall smite us all.
Green as the bay-tree, ever green, With its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, I pass'd-and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the awful truth, With which I charge my page; A worm is in the bud of youth, And at the root of age.
• Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton
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