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ON GENERAL LAWRENCE, Memorable for his conquests in India, and for his clemency to the vanquished.

ON THE REVEREND MR. HUNTER, Who received a degree from the University of Oxford, for his work against Lord Bolingbroke's Philosophy. Go, happy spirit, seek that blissful land Where zealous Michael leads the glorious band [go, Of those who fought for truth; blest spirit, And perfect all the good begun below: Go, hear applauding saints, delighted, tell How vanquish'd Falsehood, at thy bidding,

fell!

Blest in that heav'n whose paths thy virtue sought;

Blest in that God whose cause thou well hast
fought;

O let thy honour'd shade his care approve,
Who this memorial rears of filial love :
A son, whose father, living, was his pride;
A son who mourns that such a father died.

ON C. DICEY, Esq.

In Claybrook Church, Leicestershire.
O THOU, or friend or stranger, who shall
tread

These solemn mansions of the silent dead!
Think, when this record to inquiring eyes,
No more shall tell the spot where Dicey
lies;

When this frail marble, faithless to its trust,
Mould'ring itself, resigns its moulder'd dust;
When time shall fail, and Nature's self de-

cay,

And carth, and sun, and skies dissolve away;
Thy soul, this consummation shall survive,
Defy the wreck, and but begin to live.
This truth, long slighted, let these ashes
teach,

Though cold, instruct you, and though silent
preach:

On a Monument erected by Sir Robert Palk.
BORN to command, to conquer, and to spare,
As mercy mild, yet terrible as war,
Here Lawrence rests in death; while living O pause! reflect, repent, resolve, amend!
From Thames to Ganges wafts his honour'd Life has no length, eternity no end!

fame

[name.

To him this frail memorial Friendship rears,
Whose noblest monument's a nation's tears;
Whose deeds on fairer columns stand en-

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Who boast her blessings, and who feel her flame!

Oh! if from early youth one friend you've lov'd, Whom warm affection chose, and taste approv'd;

If you have known what anguish rends the heart,

When such, so known, so lov'd, for ever part;

Approach-For you the mourner rears this stone,

To sooth your sorrows, and record his own.

ON THE REVEREND MR. LOVE,

In the Cathedral, at Bristol. WHEN Worthless grandeur fills th' embellish'd urn,

No poignant grief attends the sable bier : But when distinguish'd excellence we mourn,

'ON THE REVEREND

SIR JAMES STONHOUSE, BART. M. D. In the Chapel at the Hot-Wells, Bristol. HERE rest awhile, in happier climes to shine,

The orator, physician, and divine: 'Twas his, like Luke, the double task to fill, To heal the natʼral and the moral ill. You, whose awaken'd hearts his labours blest,

Where ev'ry truth, by ev'ry grace was drest;

Oh! let your lives evince that still you feel
Th' effective influence of his fervent zeal.
One spirit rescued from eternal wo
Were nobler fame than marble can bestow;
That lasting monument will mock decay
And stand, triumphant, at the final day.

ON SARAH STONHOUSE, Second wife of the Rev. Sir James Stonhouse, Bart.

Deep is the sorrow, genuine is the tear. COME resignation! wipe the human tear, Stranger! should'st thou approach this aw-Domestic anguish drops o'er Virtue's bier;

ful shrine,

The merits of the honour'd dead to seek; The friend, the son, the christian, the divine, Let those who knew him, those who lov'd him speak.

Oh let them in some pause of anguish say, What zeal inflam'd, what faith enlarg'd his breast!

How glad the unfetter'd spirit wing'd its

way

From earth to heav'n, from blessing to be blest!

Bid selfish sorrow hush the fond complaint, Nor, from the God she lov'd, detain the saint.

Truth, meekness, patience, honour'd shade were thine;

And holy hope, and charity divine:
Though these thy forfeit being could not save,
Thy faith subdu'd the terrors of the grave.
Oh! if thy living excellence could teach,
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech:
Let death thy strongest lesson then impart ;
And write prepare to die, on ev'ry heart.

THE FOOLISH TRAVELLER:

OR, A GOOD INN IS A BAD HOME.

THERE was a prince of high degree,
As great and good as prince could be;
Much pow'r and wealth were in his hand,
With lands and lordships at command.
One son, a fav'rite son, he had,
An idle thoughtless kind of lad;
Whom, spite of all his follies past,
He meant to make his heir at last.
The son escap'd to foreign lands,
And broke his gracious sire's commands;
Far, as he fancied, from his sight,
In each low joy he took delight.
The youth, detesting peace and quiet,
Indulg'd in vice, expense, and riot;
Of each wild pleasure rashly tasted,
Till health declined, and substance wasted.
The tender sire, to pity prone,
Promis'd to pardon what was done;
And, would he certain terms fulfil

He should receive a kingdom still.
The youth the pardon little minded,
So much his sottish soul was blinded;
But though he mourn'd no past transgres-
sion,

He lik'd the future rich possession.
He lik'd the kingdom when obtain❜d,
But not the terms on which 'twas gain'd;
He hated pain and self-denial,

Chose the reward, but shunn'd the trial.
He knew his father's power how great,
How glorious too the promis'd state!
At length resolves no more to roam
But strait to seek his father's home.
His sire had sent a friend to say,
He must be cautious on his way;
Told him what road he must pursue,
And always keep his home in view.
The thoughtless youth set out indeed,

But soon he slacken'd in his speed;
For ev'ry trifle by the way
Seduc'd his idle heart astray.
By ev'ry casual impulse sway'd,
On ev'ry slight pretence he stay'd;
To each, to all, his passions bend,
He quite forgets his journey's end.
For ev'ry sport, for ev'ry song,
He halted as he pass'd along;
Caught by each idle sight he saw,
He'd loiter e'en to pick a straw.
Whate'er was present seiz'd his soul,
A feast, a show, a brimming bowl;
Contented with this vulgar lot,
His father's house he quite forgot.
Those slight refreshments by the way,
Which were but meant his strength to stay,
So sunk his soul in sloth and sin,
He look'd no farther than his inn.
His father's friend would oft appear
And sound the promise in his ear;

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Oft would he rouse him, Sluggard come!
This is thy inn, and not thy home.'
Displeas'd he answers, Come what will,
Of present bliss I'll take my fill;
In vain you plead, in vain Ihear,
Those joys are distant, these are near.'
Thus perish'd, lost to worth and truth,
In sight of home this hapless youth;

While beggars, foreigners, and poor, Enjoy'd the father's boundless store.

APPLICATION.

My fable, reader, speaks to thee,
In God this bounteous father see;
And in his thoughtless offspring trace,
The sinful, wayward, human race.
The friend, the generous father sent,
To rouse, and to reclaim him, meant ;
The faithful minister you'll find,
Who call the wand'ring, warns the blind.
Reader, awake! this youth you blame,
Are not you doing just the same?
Mindless your comforts are but given
To help you on your way to heav'n.
The pleasures which beguile the road,
The flow'rs with which your path is strew'd;
To these your whole desires you bend
And quite forget your journey's end.
The meanest toys your soul entice,
A feast, a song, a game at dice;
Charm'd with your present paltry lot,
Eternity is quite forgot.

Then listen to a warning friend,
Who bids you mind your journey's end;
A wand'ring pilgrim here you roam;
This world's your inn, the next your home.

THE IMPOSSIBILITY CONQUERED:

OR, LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR AS YOURSELF.

IN THE MANNER OF SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

THE OBJECTOR.

I. EACH man who lives the Scriptures prove,
Must as himself his neighbour love;
But though the precept's full of beauty,
Tis an impracticable duty:

I'll prove how hard it is to find

A lover of this wond'rous kind. II. Who loves himself to great excess, You'll grant must love his neighbour less ; When self engrosses all the heart How can another have a part?

Then if self-love most men enthral, A neighbour's share is none at all. III. Say, can the man who hoards up pelf E'er love his neighbour as himself? For if he did, would he not labour To heard a little for his neighbour?

Then tell me, friend, can hoarding elves E'er love their neighbour as themselves? IV. The man whose heart is bent on plea

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Loves he his neighbour like his fame?
Such lazy, or such soaring elves

Can't love their neighbour as themselves. VI. He, whose gross appetites enslave him, Who spends or feasts the wealth God gave

him;

Full, pamper'd, gorg'd at ev'ry meal,
He cannot for the empty feel.

How can such gormandizing elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?
VII. Then since the man who lusts for gold,
Since he who is to pleasure sold;
Who soars in pride, or sinks in ease,
His neighbour will not serve or please;
Where shall we hope the man to find
To fill this great command inclin'd?
VIII. I dare not blame God's holy word,
Nor censure Scripture as absurd;
But sure the rule's of no avail
If plac'd so high that all must fail;
And 'tis impossible to prove
That any can his neighbour love.
THE ANSWERER.
IX. Yes, such there are of heav'nly mould,
Unwarp'd by pleasure, ease, or gold;
He who fulfils the nobler part
By loving God with all his heart;

He, only he, the Scriptures prove,
Can, as himself, his neighbour love,

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AIRY spirits, you who love
Cooling bow'r, or shady grove:
Streams that murmur as they flow,
Zephyrs bland that softly blow;
Babbling echo, or the tale
Of the love-lorn nightingale;
Hither, airy spirits, come.
This is your peculiar home,

If you love a verdant glade,
If you love a noon-tide shade,
Hither, sylphs and fairies fly,
Unobserv'd of earthly eye.

Come, and wander ev'ry night,
By the moon-beam's glimm'ring light;
And again at early day
Brush the silver dews away.

Mark where first the daisies blow,
Where the bluest violets grow;
Where the sweetest linnet sings,
Where the earliest cowslip springs;
Where the largest acorn lies,
Precious in a fairy's eyes;
Sylphs, though unconfin'd to place,
Love to fill an acorn's space.

Come, and mark within what bush
Builds the blackbird or the thrush;
Great his joy who first espies,
Greater his who spares the prize!
Corte, and watch the hallow'd bow'r,
Chase the insect from the flow'r;

Little offices like these,

Gentle souls and fairies please.

Mortals! form'd of grosser clay,
From our haunts keep far away;
Or, if you should dare appear,
See that you from vice are clear.
Folly's minion, Fashion's fool,
Mad Ambition's restless tool!
Slave of passion, slave of pow'r,
Fly, ah fly! this tranquil bow'r !
Son of Av'rice, soul of frost,
Wretch of Heav'n abhorr'd the most,
Learn to pity others' wants,
Or avoid these hallow'd haunts.

Eve unconscious of a tear,
When Affliction's train appear;
Heart that never heav'd a sigh,
For another, come not nigh.

But, ye darling sons of Heav'n,
Giving freely what was giv'n;
You, whose lib'ral hand dispense
The blessings of benevolence:

You, who wipe the tearful eye,
You, who stop the rising sigh;
You, whose souls have understood
The luxury of doing good-

Come, ye happy virtuous few,
Open is my bow'r to you;
You, these mossy banks may press;
You, each guardian fay shall bless.

THE BAD BARGAIN:
OR, THE WORLD

THE Devil, as the Scriptures show,
Tempts sinful mortals high and low;
And acting well his various part,
Suits every bribe to every heart:
See where the prince of Darkness stands
With baits for souls in both his hands.
To one he offers empires whole,
And gives a sceptre for a soul;
To one, he freely gives in barter,
A peerage, or a star and garter;
To one he pays polite attention,
And begs him just to take a pension.
Some are so fired with love of fame,
He bribes them by an empty name;
For fame they toil, they preach, they write,
Give alms, build hospitals or fight;
For human praise renounce salvation,

SET UP TO SALE.

And sell their souls for reputation.
But the great gift, the mighty bribe,
Which Satan pours amid the tribe,
Which millions seize with eager haste,
And all desire at least to taste,
Is-ploding reader !—what d’ye think?
Alas!-tis money-money-chink!
Round the wide world the tempter flies,
Presents to view the glittering prize;
See how he hastes from shore to shore,
And how the nations all adore :
Souls flock by thousands to be sold,
Smit with the fond desire of gold.
See, at yon needy tradesman's shop,
The universal tempter stop;

'Would'st thou,' he cries, 'increase thy
treasures,

Use lighter weights and scantier measures,
Thus thou shalt thrive :' the trader's willing,
And sells his soul to get a shilling.
Next Satan to a farmer hies,

'I scorn to cheat,' the farmer cries:
Yet still his heart on wealth is bent,
And so the Devil is content;
Now markets rise, and riches roll,
And Satan quite secures his soul.
Mark next yon cheerful youth so jolly,
So fond of laughter and of folly;
He hates a stingy griping fellow,
But gets each day a little mellow;
To Satan too he sells his soul
In barter for a flowing bowl.

But mark again yon lass a spinning,
See how the tempter is beginning:
Some beau presents a top-knot nice,
She grants her virtue as the price;
A slave to vanity's control,
She, for a riband, sells her soul!
Thus Satan tries each different state :
With mighty bribes he tempts the great;

ROBERT AND RICHARD.

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The poor, with equal force he plies,
But wins them with a humbler prize:
Has gentler arts for young beginners,
And fouler sins for older sinners.
Oft too he cheats our mortal eyes,
For Satan father is of lies;

A thousand swindling tricks he plays us,
And promises, but never pays us;
Thus we poor fools are strangely caught,
And find we've sold our souls for nought.
Nay, oft, with quite a juggler's art,
He bids the proffer'd gift depart;
Sets some gay joy before our face,
Then claps a trouble in its place;
Turns up some loss for promis'd gain,
And conjures pleasure into pain.
Be wise then, oh! ye worldly tribe,
Nor sell your conscience for a bribe;
When Satan tempts you to begin,
Resist him, and refuse to sin :
Bad is the bargain on the whole,
To gain the world and lose the soul!

BALLADS.

OR, THE GHOST OF POOR MOLLY, Who was drowned in Richard's Mill-pond. Tune-'Collins's Mulberry Tree.' QUOTH Richard to Bob, 'Let things go as they will,

Of pleasure and fun I will still have my fill; In frolic and mirth I see nothing amiss, And though I get tipsy, what harm is in this? For e'en Solomon says, and I vow he says truth, [youth.' 'Rejoice, O young man, in the days of thy 'I'm glad,' answered Bob, 'you're of Solomon's creed, [proceed; But I beg, if you quote him, you'll please to 'For GOD (as the wise man continues to sing)

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Thy soul into judgment for all this will bring. Thus a man may get plung'd in a woful abyss, [this?' By choosing to say, Pray what harm is in Come, come,' says gay Richard, don't grudge me a cup, I'm resolv'd, while I'm able, I'll still keep it up; [there's bliss, Let old gray-beards deny that in frolic I'll game, love, and drink—and what harm ia in this ?'

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Says Robert, I grant if you live for to-day, You may game, love, and drink, and may frolic away;

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But while young I'll be jolly, what harm is in this?

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They parted; and Richard his pastimes be"Twas Richard the jovial, the soul of all fun; Each dancing bout, drinking bout, Dick would attend

And he sung and he swore, nor once thought of the end.

[plain, Young Molly he courted, the pride of the He promis'd her marriage, but promis'd in vain; [done, She trusted his vows, but she soon was unAnd when she lamented, he thought it good fun. [wild, Thus scorn'd by her Richard, sad Molly run And roam'd through the woods with her destitute child;

'Till Molly and Molly's poor baby were found,

One evening, in Richard's own mill-pond both drown'd.

Then his conscience grew troubled by night and by day,

But its clamour he drown'd in more drink and more play;

Still Robert exhorted, and like a true friend He warn'd him and pray'd him to think on the end!

Now disturb'd in his dreams, poor Molly each night

With her babe stood before him, how sad was the sight!

O how ghastly she look'd as she bade him attend,

[old age end.'

But then, my dear Dick, I again must conThat the Wise Man has bid us-Remember And so awfully told him, 'Remember the the end!' Says Richard, 'When sickness or peevish Shall advance to dismiss me from life's merry stage; [amiss, Repentance just then, boy, may not be

She talk'd of the woes and unquenchable fire Which await the licentious, the drunkard, and liar : [beware, How he ruin'd more maidens, she bade him

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