If duty, stern duty, require

The greatest of dangers to face, Entrench'd in high honour secure,

She death e'en can welcome in peace.

Faith fixes her anchor secure,
Infidelity's tempests to brave;

Her bark Unbelief can't unmoor,
Herself she'll not trust on its wave.

The patriarchs and prophets of old,
In the promises saw such accord,
That their faith wax'd so strong and so bold,
That the dead e'en to life they restored.

Hope sootheth and sweeteneth life,

Enables misfortune to bear;

With happiness ne'er is at strife,
But drieth up many a tear.

It is not confined to this scene,
But beyond the grave does extend;
If we cherish the bless'd gospel scheme,
That hope secures life without end.

True charity suffereth long,

Nor vaunteth nor envieth not;

Is modest, nor seeketh her own;
Nor duty will ever forget.

Those deeds we wish others to do,
To us and likewise to mankind,
Such duties we'll cheerful bestow,
With ready and resolute mind.

How beautiful it is to see

The heart throb at tales of deep woe,

And sympathy moistening the e'e,

Make the tear of compassion to flow!

Thus I have endeavoured to paint
A picture of my solitude;

But my colours, alas! they are faint;
Of strength and of energy void.

Permit me, before I do close,

To you, gentle Reader, commend,

In solitude oft to repose,

"Tis a true and a faithful friend.

For Solitude softens the heart,

And there does make virtue to grow;

If culture you on it impart,

It will a rich harvest bestow.

Yet still I should wish for a friend,
On whom I could always rely;
My happiness it would extend,

As friendship's a sweet social tie.

And if Heaven would competence give,
All grandeur and state I'd despise;
Contented and frugal I'd live,

And endeavour in virtue to rise.

A RESEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.

CONTENTMENT, thou sweet'ner of life,

In what blest abode dost thou dwell? Free from malice, detraction, and strife, Say, lovest thou poverty's dell?

On Hope's buoyant wings dost thou soar?
Or lurk'st thou in Sympathy's bower,
Where Charity's hands are stretch'd far,
In relieving the wants of the poor?

Thee I've sought in the palace of kings;
Lo! thou wert not there to be found;
Crowns are gewgaws and troublesome things;
There are thorns on their pillows of down.

Yes, Royalty is but a load,

Else, why does the old beggar sing, While the king on his throne is found sad, While fell care his bosom does wring?

We're counsel'd by History of yore,

Thou'rt not chain'd to the conqueror's car; He that conquer'd the wide world, therefore, Wept, because he could conquer no more.

A triumph's a dazzling show,

Well fitted to tickle the crowd;

But, from widows and orphans tears flow,
Every trophy to stain and enshrowd

When from courtier thou art afar,
His flattering tongue you detest;
His friendship that's never sincere,
At best's in hypocrisy dress'd.

A pension some gladly will take,
And strain every nerve to obtain;
But, they honour and principle stake,
The much wished-for mammon to gain.

In the patriot's bosom so bold,

I deem'd thee I surely would find;

As Hampden and Sidney of old,

Their life for their country resign'd.

But, in these our degenerate days,
A patriot's a name for a trade
"Down, down with the ministry base,
And set us up over their head!"

Thee, Philosophy, claims as her own, But I'll give her a hint by the bye; As a friend she does oft thee disown,

As witness her own prying eye.