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Life is a fea, where ftorms must rise;
"Tis folly talks of cloudlefs fkies :
He, who contracts his swelling fail,
Eludes the fury of the gale.

Be still, nor anxious thoughts employ; Diftruft imbitters prefent joy:

On God for all events depend;

You cannot want when God's your friend.

Weigh well your part, and do

your beft; Leave to your Maker all the rest.:

The hand which form'd thee in the womb,

Guides from the cradle to the tomb.

Can the fond mother flight her boy;
Can fhe forget her prattling joy?
Say then, fhall sov'REIGN LOVE defert
The humble, and the honeft heart?
Heav'n may not grant thee all thy mind
Yet fay not thou, that Heav'n's unkind.
God is alike, both good, and wife,
In what he grants, and what denies :
Perhaps, what goodness gives to-day,
To-morrow goodness takes away.

You

You fay, that troubles intervene,
That forrow darkens half the scene.
True-and this confequence you fee,
The world was ne'er defign'd for thee:
You're like a paffenger below,
That stays perhaps a night or fo;
But still his native country lies
Beyond the bound'ries of the skies.

Of Heav'n afk virtue, wifdom, health,
But never let thy prayer be wealth.
If food be thine, (tho' little gold)
And raiment to repel the cold;
Such as may nature's wants fuffice,
Not what from pride and folly rife; 7
If soft the motions of thy foul,

And a calm confcience crowns the whole;
Add but a friend to all this store,
You can't in reafon wifh for more:
And if kind Heav'n this comfort brings,
'Tis more than Heav'n bestows on kings.

He spake-The airy spectre flies, And ftrait the fweet illufion dies.

The

The vifion, at the early dawn,

Confign'd me to the thoughtful morn;
To all the cares of waking clay,
And inconfiftent dreams of day.

HAP

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YE ductile youths, whofe rifing fun

ΥΕ

Hath many circles ftill to run;
Who wifely with the pilot's chart,
To fteer thro' life th' unfteady heart;
And all the thoughtful voyage past,
To gain a happy port at last:
Attend a feer's inftructive fong,
For moral truths to dreams belong.

I faw this wond'rous vifion foon,
Long ere my fun had reach'd its noon;
Just when the rifing beard began
To grace my chin, and call me man.

One night, when balmy slumbers shed
Their peaceful poppies o'er my head,
My fancy led me to explore

A thoufand fcenes unknown before.
I faw a plain extended wide,

And crouds pour'd in from every fide:

All

All seem'd to start a diff'rent game,
Yet all declar'd their views the fame :
The chace was HAPPINESS I found,

But all, alas! enchanted ground.

Indeed I judg'd it wond'rous ftrange,
To see the giddy numbers range
Thro' roads, which promis'd nought, at beft,
But forrow to the human breast.
Methought, if blifs was all their view,
Why did they diff'rent paths pursue ?
The waking world has all agreed,
That Bagfhot's not the road to Tweed:
And he who Berwick feeks thro' Staines,
Shall have his labour for his pains.

*

AS PARNELL fays, my bofom wrought
With travail of uncertain thought:

And, as an angel help'd the dean,
My angel chose to intervene ;

The drefs of each was much the fame,
And VIRTUE was my feraph's name.
When thus the angel filence broke,
Her voice was mufic, as fhe fpoke:

*The Hermit.

Attend,

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