FROM THE AUTHOR ΤΟ Α CELEBRATED METHODIST PREACHER. HYPOCRISY's Son! No more of your fun; A truce with fanatical raving: Why censure the stage? "Tis known to the age That both of us thrive by-deceiving. 'Tis frequently said That two of a trade Will boldy each other bespatter: But trust me, they're fools Who play with edged tools; So let's have no more of the matter. FROM A TRUANT TO HIS FRIENDS. 'Tis not in cells, or a sequester'd cot, The mind and morals properly expand; Let Youth step forward to a busier spot, Led by Discretion's cool conducting hand. To learn some lessons from the schools of man, (Forgive me!) I forsook my darling home; Not from a light, an undigested plan, In Nor from a youthful appetite to roam. your affections (let resentment fly!) Restore me to my long-accustom'd place; Receive me with a kind forgiving eye, And press me in the parent's fond embrace. G VERSES WRITTEN ABOUT THREE WEEKS BEFORE HIS DEATH. DEAR lad, as you run o'er my rhyme, However, for better, for worse, As Damons their Chloes receive, age. My sunshine of youth is no more! My mornings of pleasure are fled! 'Tis painful my fate to endure A pension supplies me with bread! Dependant at length on the man Whose fortunes I struggled to raise ! I conquer my pride as I can His charity merits my praise. His bounty proceeds from his heart; But like the old horse in the song, I'm turn'd on the common to grazeTo Fortune these changes belong, And contented I yield to her ways! She ne'er was my friend; through the day Her smiles were the smiles of deceitAt noon she'd her favours display, And at night let me pine at her feet. No longer her presence I court, No longer I shrink at her frowns! Her whimseys supply me with sportAnd her smiles I resign to the clowns! Thus lost to each worldly desire, And scorning all riches-all fameI quietly hope to retire When Time shall the summons proclaim. I've nothing to weep for behind! To part with my friends is the worst! Their numbers, I grant, are confined, But you are still one of the first, IN the barn the tenant cock, Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock!) Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Paints with gold the village spire. From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd Trickling through the creviced rock, Colin, for the promised corn (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drown his pipe. Sweet, O sweet the warbling throng, On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. NOON. FERVID on the glittering flood, Not a dewdrop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines; Now the flock forsakes the glade, Where, uncheck'd, the sunbeams fall; Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey wall. |