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ON TIME..

FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-ftepping hours,

Whofe fpeed is but the heavy plummet's pace,

And glut thyself with what thy womb deyours, Which is no more than what is falfe and vain, And merely mortal dress ;

So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast intomb'd, And last of all thy greedy felf confum'd,

Then long eternity shall greet our blifs

With an individual kifs;

And joy fhall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is fincerely good,

And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, fhall ever shine,

About the fupreme throne

Of him, to whofe happy-making fight alone, When once our heavenly-guided foul shall climb, Then all this earthly groffie's quit,

Attir'd with stars, we fhall for ever fit,

Triumpling over Death, and Chance, and thee, O

Tine.

M 3

MILTON.

HEAVENLY WISDOM.

O HAPPY is the man who hears
Inftruction's warning voice,
And who celeftial wifdom makes
His early, only choice.

For fhe has treasures greater far
Than eaft or weft unfold,

And her reward is more fecure
Than is the gain of gold.

In her right hand she holds in view
A length of happy years,

And in her left, the prize of fame

And honor bright appears.

She guides the

young

with innocence,

In Pleafure's path to tread,

A crown of glory the bestows
Upon the hoary head.

According as her labours rise,

So her rewards increase,

Her ways are ways of pleasantnefs,
And all her paths are peace.

LOGAN,

THE PRAISE OF THE CREATOR.

PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous fource of ev'ry joy,
Let thy praife our tongues employ:

For the bleffings of the field,
For the ftores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice, -
For the generous olive's ute.

Flocks that whiten all the plain; Yellow fheaves of ripen'd grain; Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews; Suns that temp❜rate warmth diffufe;

All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the fmiling land;
All that lib'ral Autumn pours,
From her rich, o'erflowing ftores

Thefe to thee, my God, we owe,
Source from whence all bleffings flow;
And for thefe my foul fhall raise
Grateful vows, and folemn praise.

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Yet, fhould rifing whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear,
Should the fig-tree's blafted fhoot
Drop her green, untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Tho' the fick'ning flocks should fall,
And the herds defert the ftall;

Should thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain;
Blaft each op'ning bud of joy,
And the rifing year destroy;

Yet, to thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and folemn praise;
And, when every bleffing's flown,
Love thee-for thyself alone.

BARBAULD.

ON TAKING OF BIRDSNESTS.

I HAVE found out a gift for my Fair,

I have found where the Wood-Pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear!

She will fay 'tis a barbarous deed.

He ne'er can be true, fhe averr'd,
Who can rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SHENSTONE.

HYMN ON PROVIDENCE.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a fhepherd's care:
His prefence shall my wants fupply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the fultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant

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