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Tell me, thou soul of her I love,

Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled? To what delightful world above,

Appointed for the happy dead?

II.
Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam,

And sometimes share thy lover's woe; Where, void of thee, his cheerless home

Can now, alas! no comfort know?

III.
Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk,

While, under ev'ry well-known tree, I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee;

IV.
Should then the weary eye of grief,

Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,

Oh visit thou my soothing dream!

EPITAPH

ON

MISS STANLEY.

HERE, Stanley! rest, escap'd this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain :
No more sweet patience, feigning oft relief,
Lights thy sick eye, to cheat a parent's grief:
With tender art, to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own:
Now well-earn’d peace is thine, and bliss sincere:
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!

O born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm;
To show us Virtue in her fairest form ;
To show us artless Reason's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain;
Th'obedient passions knowing each their part;
Calin light the head, and harmony the heart!

Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey,
When a few suns have rolld their cares away,
Tired with vain life, will close the willing eye :
'Tis the great birth-right of mankind to die.
Blest be the bark, that wafts us to the shore,
Where death-divided friends shall part no more!
To join thee there, here with thy dust repose,
Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.

TO

THE REV. MR. MURDOCH,

RECTOR OF STRADDISHALL IN SUFFOLK,

MDCCXXXVIII.

THUS
HUS safely low, my friend, thou can’st not fall:

:
Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all;
No noise, no care, no vanity, no strife;
Men, woods, and fields, all breathe untroubled life.
Then keep each passion down, however dear;
Trust me, the tender are the most severe.
Guard, while 'tis thine, thy philosophic ease,
And ask no joy but that of virtuous peace;
That bids defiance to the storms of fate:
High bliss is only for a higher state.

PARAPHRASE

ON

THE LATTER PART OF THE SIXTH CHAPTER OF

ST. MATTHEW.

WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
O, let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he raised from earth the drooping heart:

Think not, when all your scanty stores afford
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempest bears;
What farther shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe these shiv’ring limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed ?

Behold! and look away your low despair-
See the light tenants of the barren air :
To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong,
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song:

}

Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the least wing, that flits along the sky.
To him they sing when Spring renews the plain,
To him they cry in Winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music nor their plaint in vain:
He hears the gay, and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.

Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race;
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!

If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds;
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads;
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say?
Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?

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