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

Short refpite from his galling pains ;
Nor sighs for liberty, nor native soil;
But for a while forgets his chains, and sultry toil.

No horrors haft thou in thy train,
No scorpion lash, no clanking chain.
When the pale murd'rer round him spies

A thousand grisly forms arife, When fkrieks and groans arouse his palfy'd fear, 'Tis guilt alarms his soul, and conscience wounds his ear.

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

To tell the fair his lovelick tale:
Nor less impatient of the tedious day,
She longs to hear his tale, and sigh her soul away.

Oft by the covert of thy Hades
LEANDER wou'd the TĦRACIÁN maid ;
Thro' foaming seas his passion bore,

Nor feard the ocean's thund'ring roar.
The conscious virgin from the fea-girt tow's
Hung out the faithful torch to guide him to her bow'r.

Oft

Oft at thy filent hour the sage
Pores on the fair instructive page ;
Or rapt in musings deep, his foal

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 reason meet:
Wit, the fair bloffom of the mind, se

But fairer ftill with reason join'd,
Such is the feast thy focial hours afford,
When eloquence and GRANVILLE join the friendly board.

GRANVILLE, whose polith'd mind is fraught
With all that Roma or GREECE e'er taught;
Who pleases and instructs the ear,

When he assumes the critic's chair, Wiza il
Or from the STAGYRITE or Plato draws
The arts of civil life, the spirit of the laws.

O let me often thus employs
The hour of mirth and social joy!.0";
And glean from GKANVIELE's learned store

Fair science and true wisdom's lore...
Then will I fill implore thy longer Aay,
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.

TH

HE winds were loud, the clouds deep-hung;

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 horfe—and figh'd.

But soon 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 scenes, which once my fancy took,
And my aw'd mind with wonder ftruck,

Pass’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 snow, or pelting rain,

Or sky with tempefts fraught?
No! 'these unheeded rag'd around:
Nought in them so much Mine I found,

As claim'd one wandering thought.
Far other cares engrofs'd my mind,
Cates for the joys I left behind,

In * Newton's happy groves !
Yet not because its woods disclose
Or grots or lawns more sweet than those

Which Pan at noon-day loves ;
But that, besides its social hearth
Dwells every joy, which youthful mirth

Or serious age can claim :
The man too whom my soul firft knew,
To virtue and to honour true;

And friendship’s sacred name.
O Newton, could these pensive lays
In worthy numbers scan thy praise,

Much gratitude would say;
But that the Muse, ingenuous maid,
Of flattery feems so much afraid,

She'll scarce her duty pay.
Brecknock, oa. 16, 1749.

* Newton is the name of a seat belonging to Sir John Price.

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Reflecting on thy worth, methinks I find

Thy various Seasons in their author's mind.
Spring opes her blossoms, various as thy Mase,
And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews.
Summer's hor drought in thy expression glows,
And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws.
Autumn's rich fraits th' instructed reader gains,
Who.caftes the meaning purpose of thy ftrains.
Winterbut that no semblance takes from thee:
That hoary season yields a type of me.
Shatter'd by time's bleak storms I withering lay,
Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay!
Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.

SONG.

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