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As Tiney, in a wanton mood,
Upon his Lucy's finger stood,
Ambitious to be free;

With breast elate he eager tries
By flight to reach the distant skies,
And gain his liberty.

Ah! luckless bird, what though caress'd,
And fondled in the fair one's breast,

Taught e'en by her to sing;
Know that, to check thy temper wild,
And make thy manners soft and mild,

Thy mistress cut thy wing.

The feather'd tribe who cleave the air,
Their weights by equal plumage bear,

And quick escape our power;
Not so with Tiney, dear delight,
His shorten'd wing repress'd his flight,
And threw him on the floor.

Stunn'd with the fall, he seem'd to die,
For quickly closed his sparkling eye,
Scarce heaved his pretty breast;
Alarmed for her favourite care,
Lucy assumes a pensive air,
And is at heart distress'd.

The stoic soul, in gravest strain,
May call these feelings light and vain,
Which thus from fondness flow;
Yet, if the bard arightly deems,
"Tis nature's fount which feeds the streams
That purest joys bestow.

So, should it be fair Lucy's fate,
Whene'er she wills a change of state,
To boast a mother's name;
These feelings then, thou charming maid,
In brightest lines shall be display'd,
And praise uncensured claim.


To form the taste, and raise the nobler part,
To mend the morals, and to warm the heart;
To trace the genial source we Nature call,
And prove the God of Nature friend of all;
Hervey for this his mental landscape drew,
And sketch'd the whole creation out to view.

The' enamel'd bloom, and variegated flower, Whose crimson changes with the changing hour; The humble shrub, whose fragrance scents the morn,

With buds disclosing to the early dawn;
The oaks that grace Britannia's mountains' side,
And spicy Lebanon's superior pride';

1 The Cedar.

All loudly sovereign excellence proclaim,
And animated worlds confess the same.

The azure fields that form the' extended sky, The planetary globes that roll on high, And solar orbs, of proudest blaze, combine To act subservient to the great design: Men, angels, seraphs, join the general voice, And in the Lord of Nature all rejoice.

His the gray winter's venerable guise, Its shrouded glories, and instructive skies 2; His the snow's plumes, that brood the sickening blade:

His the bright pendant that impearls the glade;
The waving forest, or the whispering brake;
The surging billow, or the sleeping lake.
The same who pours the beauties of the spring,
Or mounts the whirlwind's desolating wing.
The same who smiles in Nature's peaceful form,
Frowns in the tempest, and directs the storm.

"Tis thine, bright teacher, to improve the age; "Tis thine, whose life's a comment on thy page; Thy happy page! whose periods sweetly flow, Whose figures charm us, and whose colours glow: Where artless piety pervades the whole, Refines the genius, and exalts the soul. For let the witling argue all he can, It is Religion still that makes the man: "Tis this, my friend,that streaks our morning bright; 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of the night. When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels its dart;

2 Referring to the Winter Piece.

Within the breast bids purest rapture rise;
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.
When the storm thickens, and the thunder rolls,
When the earth trembles to the' affrighted poles,
The virtuous mind nor doubts nor fears assail;
For storms are zephyrs, or a gentler gale.

And when disease obstructs the labouring breath;

When the heart sickens, and each pulse is death;
E'en then Religion shall sustain the just,
Grace their last moments, nor desert their dust.
August 5, 1748.



MARK well my shade, and seriously attend
The silent lesson of a common friend-
Since time and life speed hastily away,
And neither can recall the former day;
Improve each fleeting hour before 'tis pass'd,
And know, each fleeting hour may be thy last.


HARK! the prophetic raven brings
My summons on his boding wings;
The birds of night my fate foretell,
The prescient deathwatch sounds my
A solemn darkness spreads the tomb,
But terrors haunt the midnight gloom;
Methinks a browner horror falls,
And silent spectres sweep the walls.


Tell me, my soul! oh, tell me why
The faltering tongue, the broken sigh?
Thy manly cheeks bedew'd with tears,
Tell me, my soul! from whence these fears?
When conscious Guilt arrests the mind,
Avenging Furies stalk behind;
And sickly Fancy intervenes,
To dress the visionary scenes.
Jesus! to thee I'll fly for aid,
Propitious Sun, dispel the shade;
All the pale family of fear
Would vanish, were my Saviour here.
No more imagined spectres walk,
No more the doubtful echoes talk;
Soft zephyrs fan the neighbouring trees,
And meditation mounts the breeze.

How sweet these sacred hours of rest,
Fair portraits of the virtuous breast,
Where lawless lust and passions rude-
And folly never dare intrude!

Be others' choice the sparkling bowl,
And mirth, the poison of the soul;
Or midnight dance, and public shows,
Parents of sickness, pains, and woes.
A nobler joy my thoughts design;
Instructive solitude, be mine;
Be mine that silent calm repast
A cheerful conscience to the last.
That tree which bears immortal fruit,
Without a canker at the root;
That friend which never fails the just,
When other friends desert their trust.

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