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With future hope, I oft would gaze, Fond, on thy little early ways, 'Thy rudely-carolled chiming phrase,

In uncouth rhymes, Fired at the simple, artless lays

Of other times.

I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar ;
Or, when the North his fleecy store

Drove thro' the sky,
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar

Struck thy young eye.

Or when the deep green-mantled Earth
Warm-cherished every floweret's birth,
And joy and music pouring forth

In every grove,
I saw thee eye the general mirth

With boundless love..

When ripened fields, and azure skies,
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their evening joys,

And lonely stalk,
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise

In pensive walk.

When youthful Love, warm-blushing, strong,
Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along,
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,

Th’ adored Name,
I taught thee how to pour in song,

To soothe thy flame.

I saw thy pulse's maddening play,
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way,
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray,

By Passion driven ;
But yet the light that led astray,

Was light from Heaven.

I taught thy manners-painting strains,
Thy loves, the ways of simple swains,
Till now, o'er all my wide domains

Thy fame extends ;
And some, the pride of Coila's plains,

Become thy friends.

Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ;
Or wake the bosom's melting throe,

With Shenstone's art ;
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow

Warm on the heart.

Yet, all beneath th' unrivalled rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows;
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws

His army shade,
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows

Adown the glade.

Then never murmur nor repine ;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ;
And trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor King's regard,
Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine,

A rustic Bard.

To give my counsels all in one,
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ;
Preserve the dignity of Man,

With Soul erect;
And trust, the Universal Plan

Will all protect.

And wear thou this—she solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head : The polished leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play ; And, like a passing thought, she fled

In light away.

Minor Poets.

THOMAS TICKELL.

Born 1686. Died 1740.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON.
CAN I forget the dismal night, that gave

My soul's best part for ever to the grave !
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings !!
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ;
The pealing organ, and the passing choir;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid ;
And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed !
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.
Oh, gone for ever, take this last adieu ;
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague !
To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.

1 Addison was buried in Westminster Abbey, June 1719.

If e'er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart ;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue,
My griefs be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthies form the hallowed mould below :
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ;
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ;
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ;
And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven.
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed
A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.

CHARLES WESLEY.

Born 1708. Died 1788.

WRESTLING JACOB.

COME, O thou Traveller unknown,

Whom still I hold, but cannot see ;
My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with Thee ;
With Thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.

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