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Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good

A paradise below!

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor'd right they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise:
We'll form their mind with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,

And crown our boary hairs;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,

And recompense our cares.

No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,

Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs ! we envy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,

And bless our humble lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed,
But then how little do we need;

For Nature's calls are few!
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,

And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our power; For, if our stock be very small, "Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.

To be resign’d when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours given;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to Heaven.

We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter life is seldom sweet;

But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,

The relics of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,

And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.

TO SOME

CHILDREN LISTENING TO A LARK,

See the lark prunes his active wings,
Rises to heaven and soars and sings.
His morning hymns, his midday lays,
Are one continued song of praise,
He speaks his Maker all he can,
And shames the silent tongue of man,

When the declining orb of light
Reminds him of approaching night,
His warbling vespers swell his breast,
And as he sings he sinks to rest.

Shall birds instructive lessons teach,
And we be deaf to what they preach?

No; ye dear nestlings of my heart!
Go, act the wiser songster's part:
Spurn your warm couch at early dawn,
And with your God begin the morn.
To Him your grateful tribute pay
Through every period of the day:
To Him your evening songs direct;
His eye shall watch, his arm protect.
Though darkness reigns, He's with you still,
Then sleep, my babes, and fear no ill.

TO A CHILD OF FIVE YEARS OLD. FAIREST flower, all flowers excelling,

Which in Milton's page we see; Flowers of Eve's embower'd dwelling' Are,

my fair one, types of thee. Mark, my Polly, how the roses

Emulate thy damask cheek; How the bud its sweets discloses

Buds thy opening bloom bespeak. Lilies are by plain direction

Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,

Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flowers and beauty

Blossom, fade, and die away;
Then pursue good sense and duty,

Evergreens! which ne'er decay.

ON LORD COBHAM'S GARDEN. It puzzles much the sages' brains,

Where Eden stood of yore; Some place it in Arabia's plains, Some

say

it is no more.
But Cobham can these tales confute,

As all the curious know;
For he hath proved, beyond dispute,

That Paradise is Stow.

| Alluding to Milton's description of Eve's bower.

TO-MORROW.

Pereunt et imputantur.

To-MORROW, didst thou

say

y! Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow! A sharper 'tis, who stakes his penury Against thy plenty–who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and

promises, The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow! It is a period no where to be found In all the hoary registers of time, Unless perchance in the fool's calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father; Wrought of such stuff as dreams are; and baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend, -arrest the present moments; For be assured, they all are errant tell tales ; And though their flight be silent, and their path Trackless as the wing'd couriers of the air, They post to heaven, and there record thy folly: Because, though station'd on the’important watch, Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved. And know, for that thou slumber'dst on the guard,

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