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His heart, now passive, yields to thy command;
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guest there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place
But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure
From vicious inmates and delights impure,
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?)
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.
O barb'rous! wouldst thou with a Gothick hand
Pull down the schools-what!--all th' schools i' th'

land;

Or throw them up to liv'ry nags and grooms,
Or turn them into shops and auction rooms?
A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,)
Deserves an answer similar or none.
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ,
(Appris'd that he is such,) a careless boy,

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And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,

Merely to sleep, and let them run astray?

Survey our schools and colleges, and see

A sight not much unlike my simile.

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From education, as the leading cause,

The publick character its colour draws;

Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.

And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepar'd t' embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;

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Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean,

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(Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess,

Or better manag'd, or encourag'd less.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

THE swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early Spring.

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The keenest frost that binds the stream, "The wildest wind that blows,

Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,

Secure of their repose.

III.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys!
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.

W.

Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;

But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.

V.

Then April with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bow'rs,
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day
To crown the smiling hours.

VI.

And if a tear, that speaks regret,
Of happier times, appear,

A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall shine and dry the tear.

On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk, the gift of my cousin Ann Bodham.

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O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, that oft in childhood solac'd me;

The same,

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes,
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannick claim
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss, Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 16

VOL. II.

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?—It was-where thou art gore
Adicus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, 1 long believ'd,
And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the publick way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a hist'ry little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair, That mem'ry keeps of all the kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd A thousand other themes iess deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly luid; Thy morning bounties cre I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum,

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

Ey thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd: All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no full,

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
Tnat humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may :
Perhaps a frail meinorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd,)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,'
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd—
* Garth.

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