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O had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again ! My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion ! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word !
Or all that this earth can afford !
These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd!
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more! My friends,—do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me ?Oh tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see!
How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light!
When I think of my own native land
In a moment I seem to be there;
Soon hurries me back to despair!
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair ;
And I to my cabin repair.
And mercy, encouraging thought !
And reconciles man to his lot.
REV. GEORGE CRABBE.
PRINCIPAL WRITINGS:--The Village; The Parish Register; The
Borough; Tales in Verse; Tales of the Hall.
(From " The Parish Register.")
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,
I mark’d his action, when his infant died,
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride Who, in their base contempt, the great deride : Nor pride in learning—though my clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew None his superior, and his equals few :But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd; In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd; Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied; In fact a noble passion, mis-named pride. I feel his absence in the hours of
prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there ;
I see no more those white locks, thinly spread
HE fox and the cat, as they travelled one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way ; 66 'Tis great,” says the fox, to make justice our
guide !" “How god-like is mercy !" Grimalkin replied.
Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood, Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, Rushed forth—as he saw the dull shepherd asleepAnd seized for his supper an innocent sheep.
" In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat ; When mutton's at hand," says the wolf," I must eat," Grimalkin's astonished—the fox stood aghast, To see the fell beast at his bloody repast. “ What a wretch !” says the cat—"'tis the
vilest of brutes ; Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and
roots ?” Cries the fox, “ While our oaks give us acords so
good, What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent blood !”
Well, onward they marched, and they moralised still, Till they came where some poultry picked.chaff
by a mill. Sly Reynard surveyed them with gluttonous eyes, And made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize! A mouse, too, that chanced from her covert to stray, The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey ! A spider that sat in her web on the wall, Perceived the poor victims, and pitied their fall : She cried, “Of such murders how guiltless am I!” So ran to regale on a new-taken fly!