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ON READING SIR CHARLES GRANDISON, IN 1753.
AY, ye apostate and profane,
Allegiance to your God,
And lift you from the crowd ?
Are equal to the task:
Of human vigour ask,
The tortures of despair ;
To gain admittance there.
To cheer the face of woe ;
And a forgiven foe;
The guardians of mankind;
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,
The multitude behind !
Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Derived from Heaven alone,
To call the blessing down.
Such is that heart;—but while the Muse
Her feebler spirits faint ;
The hero, and the saint !
ADDRESSED TO MISS MACARTNEY, ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE,
ND dwells there in a female heart,
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined
Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
At once both bliss and woe !
Far be the thonght, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire, How sweet soe'er the verse complain,
Tho' Phæbus string the lyre.
Come then, fair maid (in nature wise)
Who, knowing them, can tell
The glowing bosom swell.
Of pleasing, which you share,
To form the better pray’r.
“Oh ! if my Soy'reign Author please,
Far be it from my fate,
And slumber on in state.
" What tho' in scaly armour drest,
Indifference may repel
No joy can ever dwell.
“'Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fix'd by Heav'n's decree, That all the true delights of man
Should spring from Sympathy.
“Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves.
Who, if from labour eased, Extend no care beyond themselves,
Unpleasing and unpleased.
“Let no low thought suggest the pray'r ;
Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me, Long as I draw ethereal air
To suff' rings not my own,
Where'er is heard a groan.
Her natural ally,
Prepare it for the sky.”
And you, fond maid, approve ;
Whate'er you wish or love.
Lead on the various year,
Extend a larger sphere.
Your golden moments bless, With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess.
A. OU told me, I remember, glory built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt. The deeds that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel that the very lightning spares, Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust.
B. I grant, that men continuing what they are,
But let eternal infamy pursue
A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man, Kings do but reason on the selfsame plan, Maintaining yours, you cannot their's condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.
B. Seldom, alas ! the power of logic reigns