Hail facred hour of peaceful rest!
Of pow'r to charm the troubled breast!
By thee the captive slave obtains

Short refpite from his galling pains;
Nor fighs for liberty, nor native foil;

But for a while forgets his chains, and fultry toil.

No horrors hast thou in thy train,
No scorpion lash, no clanking chain.
When the pale murdʼrer round him spies

A thousand grifly forms arife, sus pi

When skrieks and groans arouse his palfy'd fear, 'Tis guilt alarms his foul, and conscience wounds his ear.

The village fwain whom Phillis charms,
Whofe breast the tender passion warms,
Wishes for thy all-fhadowing veil,

To tell the fair his lovefick tale:

Nor less impatient of the tedious day,
She longs to hear his tale, and figh her foul away.

Oft by the covert of thy shade c

LEANDER Woo'd the THRACIAN maid ; Thro' foaming feas his paffion bore, mak Nor fear'd the ocean's thund'ring roar. The confcious virgin from the fea-girt tow'r Hung out the faithful torch to guide him to her bow'r.

Oft

Oft at thy filent hour the fage
Pores on the fair instructive page;

Or rapt in musings deep, his foul pl

Mounts active to the starry pole:

There pleas'd to range the realms of endless night, Numbers the stars, or marks the comet's devious light.

Thine is the hour of converse sweet,
When sprightly wit and reafon meet:
Wit, the fair bloffom of the mind,
But fairer ftill with reafon join'd,

Such is the feast thy focial hours afford,

When eloquence and GRANVILLE join the friendly board.

GRANVILLE, whofe polifh'd mind is fraught

With all that ROMB OF GREECE e'er taught;

Who pleases and inftructs the ear,

When he assumes the critic's chair,i si

Or from the STAGYRITE or PLATO draws The arts of civil life, the fpirit of the laws.

回

O let me often thus employ ko ***
The hour of mirth and focial joy!or
And glean from GRANVILLE's learned store
Fair science and true wifdom's lorem

Then will I still implore thy longer stay,

Nor change thy feftive hours for funshine and the day.

Written

Written upon leaving a FRIEND'S House

in WALES.

By the Rev. Dr. M.

HE winds were loud, the clouds deep-hung;

THE

And dragg'd their sweepy trains along

The dreary mountain's fide;

When, from the hill, one look to throw
On Towy's rambling flood below,
I turn'd my horse- -and figh'd.

But foon the gufts of fleet and hail
Flew thick across the darken'd vale,
And blurr'd the face of day:
Forlorn and fad, I jogg'd along;

And tho' Tom cry'd, "You're going wrong,"

Still wander'd from my way.

The fcenes, which once my fancy took,
And my aw'd mind with wonder ftruck,
Pafs'd unregarded, all!

Nor black Trecarris' fteepy height,
Nor waste Trecastle gave delight;

Nor clamorous Hondy's fall.

Did the bleak day then give me pain?
The driving fnow, or pelting rain,
Or fky with tempests fraugh: ?
No! these unheeded rag'd around:
Nought in them fo much Mine I found,
As claim'd one wandering thought.

Far other cares engrofs'd my mind,
Cares for the joys I left behind,

In * Newton's happy groves!

Yet not because its woods difclofe
Or grots or lawns more fweet than those
Which Pan at noon-day loves;

But that, befides its focial hearth
Dwells every joy, which youthful mirth

Or ferious age can claim :

The man too whom my foul first knew,
To virtue and to honour true;

And friendship's facred name.

O Newton, could thefe penfive lays
In worthy numbers fcan thy praise,
Much gratitude would fay;

But that the Mufe, ingenuous maid,
Of flattery feems so much afraid,

She'll fcarce her duty pay.

Brecknock, Oct. 16, 1749.

* Newton is the name of a feat belonging to Sir John

Price.

10101 1010 101010

DENNIS to Mr. THOMSON,

Who had procured him a Benefit Night.

Reflecting on thy worth, methinks I find

Thy various Seasons in their author's mind. Spring opes her blossoms, various as thy Mufe, And, like thy foft compaffion, fheds her dews. Summer's hot drought in thy expreffion glows, And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws. Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains, Who taftes the meaning purpose of thy ftrains. Winter but that no femblance takes from thee:

That hoary season yields a type of me.

Shatter'd by time's bleak ftorms I withering lay,
Leaflefs, and whitening in a cold decay!

Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.

SONG.