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CoME, peace of mind, delightful guest 1
Return, and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart:
Norriches I nor power pursue,
Nor hold forbidden joys in view;
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From avarice and ambition free,
And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,
The banquet of thy smiles?

The great, the gay, shall they partake
The heaven that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove and the sequester'd shed,
To be a guest with tham?
For thee Ipanted, thee I prized,
For thee I gladly tio
Whate'er I loved before;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say—
Farewell I we meet no more?


WEAK and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Wirtue engages his assent,
But Pleasure wins his heart.
'Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view;
And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the distant coast;
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.


REBELLION is my theme all day;
I only wish 'twould come , ,

(As who knows but perhaps it may ?)
A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
On tother side the Atlantic,

I always held them in the right,
But most so when most frantic.

When lawless mobs insult the court,
That man shall be my toast,

If breaking windows be the sport,
Who bravely breaks the most.

But 0 ! for him my fancy culls
The choicest flowers she

Who constitutionally pulls
Your house about your ears.

Such civil broils are my delight,
Though some folks can't endure them,

Who say the mob are mad outright,
And that a rope must cure them.

A rope 1 I wish we patriots had
Such strings for all who need 'em—

What I hang a man for going mad!
Then farewell British freedom.


So then—the Wandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,

Have burnt to dust a nobler pile
Than ever Roman saw I

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift,
And many a treasure more,
The well-judged purchase and the gift
That graced his letter'd store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,
The loss was his alone:
But ages yet to come shall mourn
The burning of his own.


WHEN wit and genius meet their doom
In all-devouring flame,

They tell us of the fate of Rome,
And bid us fear the same.

O'er Murray's loss the muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm,

Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.

There Memory, like the bee that's fed
From Flora's balmy store,

The quintessence of all he read
Had treasured up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Haye done him cruel wrong;

The flowers are iń. sii we find
The honey on his tongue.


Thus says the prophet of the Turk,
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd;
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose,
These choose the back, the belly those ;
#. some 'tis confidently said
e meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.
Thus, conscience freed from every clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.
You laugh—'tis well—the tale polio
May make you laugh on t'other side.
Renounce the world—the preacher cries.
We do—a multitude replies.
While one as innocent regards
A snug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play;
Some love a concert, or a race;
And others shooting, and the chase.
Reviled and loved, renounced and follow’d,
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd;

Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he:
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.


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Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung
i. though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flageolet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole,
His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
o sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest shayen wood,
e-built and latticed well.

Well latticed—but the , alas !
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For Bully's plumage sake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,
The swains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure:
When, led by instinct s and sure,
Subsistence to provide, -
A beast forth sallied on the scout,
Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout,
And badger-colour'd hide,

He, entering at the study door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;
And something in the wind
Conjectured, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,
Food chiefly for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb’d poor Bully's rest;
In sleep he seem'd to view
A rat fast clinging to the cage,
And, screaming at the sad presage,
Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went—
Ah, muse ! forbear to speak
Minute the horrors that ensued;
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-
He left poor Bully's beak.

O had he made that too his prey;
That beak, whence issued many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps—the Muses mourn—
So when, by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,
His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death he died.


THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower.
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh’d down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem’d, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left, with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

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And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
eady to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while

And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

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