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ARTICLE XX, Verses by Master J, Owsdul, Markinton, who is re

quested to send for the PRIZE MEDAL, or for books to

the amount of half a guinea.
The sun was sinking to the vale of night,
And ting'! with faintest ray Busaco's height;
The din of arms, the battle's fearful roar,
No longer echo'd through Iberia's shore,
And Silence pensive stood, with sable train,
To list the dying groan, and weep the slain:
Then from the bloody ground, with arms o’erspread,
A wounded soldier feebly rais'd his head;
Within his breast a mortal stab he bore,
And lite was ebbing with the crimson gore;

Firm had he stood upon the rocky height,
Fearless had met the horrors of the fight,
And, 'gainst a tyrant's arm and iron laws,
He fell, supporting freedom's sacred cause.
But now a glance upon the neighbouring dead
He mournful threw, and, sighing, faintly said
• Farewell thou cheeriul orb, again to rise,
But ne'er again to gladden these sad eyes !
Farewell, my comrades, may your peace-crown'd sails
Soon spread in triumph for dear England's vales !
My children !-wife!"- -but here his falt'ring breath
For ever fled !-the hero sunk in death.

the turf, with sweetest violets dress’d,
Lightly repose upon his honour'd breast;
And though no pompous

niarble wrap
Freedom shall often come, at break of day,
To pay his vows; the goddess Liberty,
Around his urn a laurel wreath shall tie;
And Memory, drooping o'er bis hallow'd grave,
Sighing shall oft repeat," here sleeps the brave.”

Attested by Mr. Proctor.

the clay,

ARTICLE XXI. Verses by Master J. Smith, Renhold Vicarage, near



Welcome the morning of this day!

This day our Saviour came;
He came his people to redeen,

And sinners to reclaim.
Nor in a palace was he born,

Nor in a stately bed ;
Christ, our salvation, had not where

To lay his sacred head.
Yet though of humble parents born,

And gentle as a lamh,
He is the whole creation's Lord,
He is the great

“I AM."
He came (Oh, bless the Saviour's name !)

The vile, the lost to save :
He died, and triumph'd over death,

O'er Satan and the grave.
First to the Jews he offer'd life,

But they his laws refus'd ;
They trod his gospel under foot,

And then his name abus'd.
Bow to the sceptre of his grace,

His words and orders keep;
For he th' anointed Saviour is

Of Gentile, Jew, and Greek.
All laud and praise to him be giv'n

Who now doth reign on high ;
For he is still the sinner's friend

Who did for sinners die.
Attested by the Red. A. J. Crespin, Renhold Vicarage,

near Ledford.

By Master J, Catlow, Attercliffe.


Oh, nymph sublime ! reflection's greatest friend,
To thee I beg an earnest prayer to send ;
Confusion's sons in riot spend their life,
Teach me to shun the busy noise of strife;
In courts while others all their time employ,
Oh ! let me find a far superior joy ;
Lead me to some sequester’d, lonely cell,
Where virgin Solitude in peace doth dwell ;
Hard by where flows the pebbly, purling stream,
Apt to inspire a melancholy theme;
All Nature in her beauty jocund smiles,
My eyes enraptures, and my thoughts beguiles ;
In contemplation let my soul be wrapt,
And all my pow'rs to calm reflection apt:
Then will I meditate on human life,
At distance view dread broils, and blood, and strife ;
Nor vainly envy, in my humble state,
The pompous titles of the ruling great :
While youth, and strength, and fortune hold command,
These tyrants rule with nervous iron hand;
But when rude time has mark’d them for his prey,
They all shall fall, the pow'rful and the gay :
Nor can their noble race and far-spread fame,
Conjoin'd, invalidate the tyrant's claim:
Fear through the mansion stalks with monstrous howl,
And ghastly Death with terror frights the soul ;
The voice of flatt’ry loses then its charms;
The tyrant grim appears in dreadful arms.
In the lone grot' be my delight to dwell,
And to the wind my sorrows, joys, to tell;
Remote from cities and their cursed cares,
Be mine to shun the world's deceitful snares;
To listen to the tale of gloomy caves;
To ponder o'er the abbey's silent graves :
Or if these dreary walks delight thee not,
But longing, seek'st a more enchanting spot,

From hence, O spotless nymph! with lily hand
Conduct me safe to some more genial land ;
To yoncler fragrant amaranthine bow'r,
Where Nature shines in ev'ry painted flow'r;
In sight of which, the lambkins sport and play,
And all creation hails the rising day;
Such as Parnassus, by the poets fam’d,
For solitude and true devotion fram'd :
Here will I bask, in deep reflection lost,
Nor shall my mind with cares and fears be toss'd ;
Here shall I think myself supremely great,
Freed from the troubles that attend on state :
The balmy wind, just rustling 'mong the trees,
Will lull me gently to recline at ease :
The murm’ring rill, which laves its pebbly course,
The clear smooth stream meand’ring from its source,
The waving grass, the softly-whistling breeze,
With fancy's dreams my tranquil mind will please :
The twittring songsters of the verdant grove,
Will make my mind in love's sweet sallies rove;
While at the echo of my tuneful lyre,
My ardent soul shall glow with martial fire.-
Amid this solitary pleasing scene,
From brute creation morals let me glean ;
Let all my thoughts to one great purpose tend,
From Nature's pleasing works, my heart to mend.-
So would I happy live, contented die,
No foe exulting, and no friend to sigh.

Attested by Mr. Fieldsend.

Verses by Master P. Thompson, aged 137 years,

Renhold Vicarage.

Cold blew the blast across the moor,

His way the trav'ler lost,
Nor could he find one cottage door

To shield him from the frost,

His friendly home he was not near,

He knew not where to lie,
His mind was fill'd with dread and fear

Lest he with cold should die.
He hasten’d on with trembling pace,

When lo! a light he spies;
Then pleasure shone upon his face,

And sparkled from his eyes.
He knock'd when at the cot arriv’d,

A voice cried out “ who's there?
“ A trav’ler cold,” he then replied,

“ This night would fain rest here.
" The night is dark, my way

I've lost,
The wind is piercing cold,
My body's bitten by the frost,

And I am faint and old.
“Oh! shelter me this dreadful night,

My home is far away,
Depart I will by morning light

So let me in, I pray.
The peasant op'd his cottage door,

The trav'ler's wants supplied,

him of his little store,
And plac'd him by his side.
They talk'd beside the blazing hearth

Till night had pass'd away,
The trav'ler then resum’d his path

By dawning of the day.
Thy fellow-creatures if thou should'st

În want or mis’ry see,
Then do to others as thou would'st

Have others do to thee.
Attested by Rev. A. I. Crespin, Renhold Vicarage, near

Other good copies of verses were sent by Master J.H. Stephenson, Renhold Vicarage,

Attested by the Rev. A. I. Crespin. Master Beldam,

Attested by Mr. Bosworth.

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