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Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent' all on pleasure, heedless of its end. [prove,
But he, who knew what human hearts would
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go spend them in the vale of tears."
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!

O salutary streams, that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin:
But ills of every shape and every name,
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim,
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is near; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thineSo once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.


UNWIN, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,

Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penn'd,

Thy name omitted in a page
That would reclaim a vicious age.

A union form'd, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, or in sport,

May be as fervent in degree
And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.

The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,
With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair,
As if produced by nature there.

Not rich, I render what I may,
I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first essay,
Lest this should prove the last.
"Tis where it should be-in a plan
That holds in view the good of man.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blazed by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.



THE Swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.

The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose.

But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.

Old Winter halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.

Then April, with her sister May,

Shall chase him from the bowers,
And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.

And if a tear that speaks regret
Of happier times appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall shine and dry the tear.

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SHE came-she is gone-we have met―
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream-

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem

That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with a tone, Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witness'd her own.

My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede,

Would feel herself happier here;

For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times

Than aught that the city can show.

So it is when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,

"Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite;
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess

Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess

The scene of her sensible choice!

To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads.

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam;

She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.


A HERMIT, (or if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old,)

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