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I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd
713 Or shine the dulness of still life away ; Divine communion, carefully enjoy'd, Or sought with energy, must fill the void. () sacred art, to which alone life owes Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close ;
750 Scornid in a world, indebted to that scorn For evils daily felt and hardly borne. Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding nands Flow'rs of rank odour upon thorny lands, And while Experience cautions us in vain,
755 Grasp seeining happiness, and find it pain. Despondence, self-deserted in her grief, Lost by abandoning her own relief, Murmuring and ungrateful discontent, That scorns afflictions mercifully nieant,
76C Those humours tart as wine upon the fret, Which idleness and weariness beget : These, and a thousand plagues, that haunt the breast, Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, Divine communion chases, as the day
705 Drives to their dons th' obedient beasts of prey. See Judah's promis'd king, bereft of all, Driv'n out an exile from the face of Saul; To distant caves the lonely wand'rer flies, To scek that peace a tyrant's frown denies. Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, Hear him, o'erwlielu'd with sorrow, yet rejoico ; No womanishi or wailiny grief has part, No, not a moment, in his royal heart ;
'Tis manly musick, such as martyrs make,
Religion does not censure or exclude
Me poetry. (or rather notes that aim
TIIE YEARLY DISTRESS,
TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEI.
Verses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining
of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the ducs at the parsonage.
COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The burden of my song.
The priest he merry is and blitho,
When tithing tinie draws neai.
Ho then is full of frights and fears,
As one at point to die,
He heaves up many a siyh.
For then the farmers come, jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
To make their payments good.
In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be expressid, When lie that takes, and he that pays,
Are both aliko distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at his gatos
The clumsy swains alight,
He trembles at the sight.
And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the cian, Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat hiin if he can.
So in they como-each makes his legs
And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score.
" And how does miss and madam do,
“ The little boy, and all ?" « All tight and well. And how do you
" Good Mr. What-d'ye-call ?"
The dinner comes, and down they sit
Wore o'er such hungry folk ? There's little talking, and no wit ;
It is no tiine to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Holds up the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they aro dull
And lumpish still as ever ;
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins,
" Come, neighbours, we must wag-" The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs, that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.
" A rarer man than you " In pulpit none shall hear: “ But yet, methinks, to tell you true, " You sell it plaguy dear."
O why are farmers made so coarse
Or clergy made so fine?
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum