IV. Religion! what treasure untold Refides in that heav'nly word! More precious than filver and gold, But the found of the church going bell Or fmil'd when a fabbath appear'd.: V. Ye winds that have made me your fport, Convey to this defolate fhore, Some cordial endearing report Of a land I fhall vifit no more, O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to fee. VI. How VI. How fleet is a glance of the mind! And the fwift winged arrows of light. But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to defpair. VII. But the fea fowl is gone to her neft, Ev'n here is a season of reft, And I to my cabin repair. There is mercy in ev'ry place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. On On the Promotion of EDWARD THURLOW, Efq. to the Lord High Chancellorship of England. I ROUND Thurlow's head in early youth, And in his sportive days, Fair science pour'd the light of truth, And genius fhed his rays. II. See with united wonder, cry'd With all the skill of age. III. Difcernment, eloquence, and grace, Proclaim him born to fway The balance in the highest place, And bear the palm away. IV. The praise beftow'd was juft and wife, He sprang impetuous forth, Secure of conqueft where the prize Attends fuperior worth. So the best courfer on the plain And does but at the goal obtain What all had deem'd his own. ODE то РЕАСЕ. I. COME, peace of mind, delightful guest ! Return and make thy downy neft Once more in this fad heart; Nor riches I, nor pow'r pursue, We therefore need not part. II. Where wilt thou dwell if not with me, From av'rice and ambition free, And pleafures fatal wiles? For whom, alas! doft thou prepare The banquet of thy finiles? III. The great, the gay, fhail they partake And wilt thou quit the ftream That murmurs through the dewy mead, To be a guest with them? IV. For thee I panted, thee I priz'd, For thee I gladly facrific'd Whate'er I lov'd before, And fhall I fee thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee fay Farewell! we meet no more? HUMAN FRAILTY. I. WEAK and irrefolute is man; The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends away. |