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In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,

Called 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 thine-
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,
And drought on all the drooping herbs around.

PART I.

F

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago—
Alas, how time escapes!-'tis even so—
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,
And always friendly we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour-and now we never meet!
As some grave gentlemen in Terence says
('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days),
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-
Strange fluctuation of all human things!

True. Changes will befall, and friends may part,
But distance only cannot change the heart:
And, were I call'd to prove the' assertion true,
One proof should serve—a reference to you.

Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life,
Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife,
We find the friends we fancied we had won,
Though numerous once, reduced to few or none?
Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch?
No; gold they seem'd, but they were never such.

Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge, Dreading a negative, and overawed

Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad.

Go, fellow!-whither?-turning short about-
Nay. Stay at home-you're always going out.
'Tis but a step, Sir, just at the street's end.-
For what? An please you, Sir, to see a friend.-
A friend! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start-
Yea, marry, shalt thou, and with all my heart.-
And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw,
I'll see him too-the first I ever saw.

I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,
And was his plaything often when a child;
But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close,
Else he was seldom bitter or morose.

Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd,

His grief might prompt him with the speech he made;
Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth,
The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind,
Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.
But not to moralize too much, and strain
To prove an evil of which all complain
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun),
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.
Once on a time an emperor, a wise man,
No matter where, in China or Japan,
Decreed, that whosoever should offend
Against the well known duties of a friend,
Convicted once, should ever after wear
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare.
The punishment importing this, no doubt,
That all was naught within, and all found out.

O happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else, could a law, like that which I relate, Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few, that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold; While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close button'd to the chin, Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

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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