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In fervice high, and anthems clear

As may with fweetness, through mine ear,

Diffolve me into ecftafies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every star that heav'n doth shew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old Experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
Thefe pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

THE

MISER AND PLUTUS.

A FABLE.

ΒΥ

GA r.

THE wind was high, the window shakes,

With fudden start the Mifer wakes;

Along the filent room he ftalks,

Looks back, and trembles as he walks.

Each lock and ev'ry bolt he tries,

In ev'ry creek and corner pries,

Then opes the cheft with treafure ftor'd,
And ftands in rapture o'er his hoard.

But now,

with fudden qualms poffeft,

He wrings his hands, he beats his breaft;
By confcience ftung he wildly ftares,
And thus his guilty foul declares,

Had the deep earth her ftores confin'd, This heart had known fweet peace of mind; But virtue's fold. Good Gods! what price Can recompense the pangs of vice!

O bane of good! feducing cheat!

Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?
Gold banish'd honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
Gold fow'd the world with every ill;
Gold taught the murd'rer's fword to kill:
'Twas gold inftructed coward hearts
In treach'ry's more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mifchiefs o'er?
Virtue refides on earth no more!
He fpoke, and figh'd. In angry mood
Plutus, his god, before him ftood.
The Mifer, trembling, lock'd his cheft;
The vifion frown'd, and thus addrefs'd.

Whence is this vile ungrateful rant,

Each fordid rafcal's daily cant?

Did I, bafe wretch! corrupt mankind?
The fault's in thy rapacious mind.
Because my bleffings are abus'd,
Muft I be cenfur'd, curs'd, accus'd?
Ev'n virtue's felf by knaves is made
A cloak to carry on the trade;

And pow'r (when lodg'd in their possession)
Grows tyranny and rank oppreffion.

Thus when the villain crams his cheft,
Gold is the canker of the breaft;
'Tis av'rice, infolence, and pride,
And ev'ry shocking vice befide:
But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blefies like the dews of heav'n:
Like Heav'n it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows' eyes.
Their crimes on gold fhall Misers lay,
Who pawn'd their fordid souls for pay?
Let bravos, then, when blood is spilt,
Upbraid the paffive fword with guilt.

A SACRED LYRIC.

ON BEING WAKED IN THE NIGHT BY A VIOLENT

STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING,

LOCK'D in the arms of balmy sleep,

From every care of day,

As filent as the folded sheep,
And as fecure I lay.

Sudden, tremendous thunders roll;
Quick lightnings round me glare;
The folemn fcene alarms my foul,
And wakes the heart to prayer,

Whate'er, O Lord! at this ftill hour,
Thefe awful founds portend,
Whether fole enfigns of thy power,
Or groans for nature's end!

Grant me to bear with equal mind
These terrors of the sky;
Forever, as thou wilt, refign'd,

Alike to live or die.

If, wak'd by thy vindictive hand,

This mighty tempeft ftirs;

That peal the voice of thy command;
These flames thy meffengers;

Welcome the bolt, where'er it fall

Beneath the paffing fun;

Thy righteous will determines all,

And let that will be done.

But if, as nature's laws ordain,
Nor deftin'd by thy will,

Each bolt exerts its wide domain,
Self-authoriz'd to kill,

Quick interpofe, all-gracious Lord,
In this remorfelefs night!

Arife! and be alike ador'd
For mercy as for might.

Vouchsafe, amidst this time of dread,
Thy fuppliant's voice to hear:

O fhield from harm each friendly head,
And all my foul holds dear.

Let it not kill where riot foul

Pours forth the drunken jeft;
Nor where the guilt-envenom'd foul
Starts wild from troubled rest.

A while O fpare thofe finful breasts,
Whofe deeds the night deform,

Nor ftrike where fmiling virtue refts,

Unconscious of the ftorm.

R 3

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