HUMAN FRAILTY. 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; Virtue engages his assent, But Pleasure wins his heart.. 'Tis here the folly of the wise Bound on a voyage of awful length A stranger to superior strength, 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. A COMPARISON. THE lapse of time and rivers is the same, Both speed their journey with a restless stream; The silent pace, with which they steal away, No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay; And a wide ocean swallows both at last. ANOTHER. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. SWEET Stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid— Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course: Graceful and useful all she does, SONG ON PEACE. AIR-"My fond Shepherds of late," &c. No longer I follow a sound; No longer a dream I pursue; I have sought thee in splendour and dress, The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope And the summit of all our desires. Peace may be the lot of the mind That seeks it in meekness and love: But rapture and bliss are confined To the glorified spirits above. SONG. AIR-" The Lass of Patie's Mill.” WHEN all within is peace, How Nature seems to smile! The livelong day beguile. From morn to dewy eve, With open hand she showers And sooth the silent hours. It is content of heart Gives nature power to please; Can make a wintry sky Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye The vast majestic globe, So beauteously array'd With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart A dreary wild at best; PART I. And longs to be at rest. D ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, SEPT. 1782. To the March in Scipio. TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His work of glory done. |