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The needle's constancy forego
Its variations rather,
Insensibility makes some
When most you need their pity ; 'Tis waiting till the tears shall fall From Gog and Magog in Guildhall,
Those playthings of the city. The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete :
Th' attempt would scarce be madder, Should any from the bottom hope, At one huge stride, to reach the top
Of an erected ladder.
Without an effervescence,
Like that, a coalescence.
Religion should extinguish strife,
But even those, who differ
No combatants are stiffer.
To prove, alas ! my main intent,
No cutting and contriving ;
Seeking a real friend, we seem
With still less hope of tbriving.
Then judge, or ere you choose your man,
And, having made election,
Enfeeble his affection.
It is not timber, lead, and stone,
To finish a great building;
The carving and the gilding.
First rivets our attention ;
Must save it from declension.
The man who hails you Tom-or Jack,
His sense of your great merit,
To pardon, or to bear it. Some friends make this their prudent plan"Say little, and hear all you can ;
Safe policy, but hateful ;
So barren sands imbibe the show'r,
Unpleasant and ungrateful.
They whisper trivial things, and sınall ; But, to communicate at all
Things serious, deem improper ; Their feculence and froth they show, But keep the best contents below,
Just like a simm'ring copper. These samples (for alas ! at last These are but samples, and a taste
Of evils yet unmention'd) May prove the task, a task indeed, In which 'tis much, if we succeed,
Pursue the theme, and you shall find
To be at least expedient,
A principal ingredient. True friendship has, in short, a grace, More than terrestrial in its face,
That proves it Heav'n-descended : Man's love of woman not so pure, Nor, when sincerest, so secure
To last till life is ended,
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, SEPTEMBER 1782.
OLL for the brave !
The brave that are no more !
Fast by their native shore !
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave !
Brave Kempenfelt is gone ;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle ;
No tempest gave the shock ;
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath ;
His fingers held the pen,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
How Nature seems to smile ! Delights that never cease,
The livelong day beguile. From morn to dewy eve,
With open hand she showers Fresh blessings, to deceive
And soothe the silent hours. It is content of heart
Gives Nature power to please ; The mind that feels no smart,
Enlivens all it sees ; Can make a wintry sky
Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye,
As peep of early day. The vast majestic globe,
So beauteously array'd In Nature's various robe,
With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart
A dreary wild at best ; It flutters to depart,
And longs to be at rest.