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TOU little know the heart that you advise ;

I view this various scene with equal eyes:
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long fince the value of this world I know,
Pity the madness, and despise the show.
Well as I can my, tedious part I bear,
And wait for my dismission without fear.
Seldom I mark mankind's detested ways,
Not hearing censure, nor affecting praise ;
And, unconcern'd, my future state I trust
To that fole Being, merciful and juft.

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An Address of the STATUES at Stowe,

to Lord COBHAM, on his Return to his Gardens.


ROM every

Muse and every art thy own,
Thy bow'rs our theatres, thy mind our throne !
Hail! to thy virtues manumiz'd from state ;
Hail! to thy leisure to be wisely great.

Fetter'd by duties and to forms enllay'd,
How timely have thy years a remnant fav’d!
To taste that freedom which thy sword maintain'd,
And lead in letter'd ease, a life unpain'd:
So Scipio (Carthage fall’n) refign'd his plome,
And smild at the forgetfulness of Rome.
O greatly bless'd! whose evening sweetest shines,
And, in unclouded flowness, calm declines !
While free reflection with reverted eye,
Wan'd from hot noon-tide and a troubled sky,
Divides life well: the largest part, long known
Thy country's claim; the last and best thy own.

Here while detach'd, thy felf-supported soul
Resumes dominion and escapes controul ;
Moves with a grandeur, monarchs wish in vain,
Above all fears, storms, dangers, hopes or pain ;

A glance

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A glance sometimes from thy fafe summit throw,
And see the dusty world look dim below:
Thro' the dark throng discern huge slaves of pride
Should'ring unheeded Happiness aside;
Thwarted and puth'd and lab'ring into name,
And dignify'd with all the dirt of fame;
Then with a smile superior, turn away,
And lop th' exub'rance of some ftraggling spray ;
Wind thro' thy mazes to serene delight,
And from the bursting bubbles shade thy fight.

Yet where thou shin'it, like heav'n behind a cloud,
Moving like light, all piercing, tho' not loud;
The Muse shall find thee in thy bleft retreat,
And breathe this honeft wish at Cobham's feet :
Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow!
And breezy like thy groves, thy passions blow!
Wide as thy fancy, be thy spreading praise !
And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days.

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ET others hail the rising fun,

I bow to that whose course is run,
Which sets in endless night;
Whose rays benignant bless'd this isle,
Made peaceful Nature round us smile

With calm, but chearful light.

No bounty paft provokes my praise,
No future prospects prompt my lays,

From real grief they flow;
I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My sorrows fall with Britain's tears,

And join a nation's woe.


See as you pass the crowded ftreet,
Despondence clouds each face you meet, s

All their loft friend deplore:
You read in every pensive eye,
You hear in ev'ry broken figh,

That Pelham is no more,

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If thus each Briton be alarm'd,
Whom but his distant influence warm’d,

What grief their breasts must rend,
Who in his private virtues bless'd,
By Nature's dearest tyes poffess’d

The Husband, Father, Friend.

What! mute ye bards ? -no mournful verse,
No chaplets to adorn his hearfe,

To crown the good and just?
- Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You seek no pensions from the tomb,

No laurels from the dust.

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When pow'r departed with his breath,
The sons of Flatt'ry fled from death:

Such insects swarm at noon.
Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd,
She never ask'd, nor e'er receiv'd,
One ministerial boon.

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