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WILLIAM had got a private hole to spy
The folks who came with writs, or "How d’ye de ?" Poflefling, too, a penetrating eye,
Friends from his foes the Quaker quickly knew. A bailiff in disguise, one day,
Though not disguis’d to our friend Will, Came, to Will's shoulder compliments to pay,
Conceal’d, the catchpole thought, with wondrous skill. Boldly he knock'd at WILLIAM's, door,
Dreft like a gentleman, from top to toe, Expecting quick admittance to be sure
But-no. Will's servant, NATHAN, with a straight-hair'd head,
Unto the window gravely Atalk’d, not ran“ Master at home?” the, Bailiff sweetly said
“ Thou canst not speak to him !" reply'd the Man. “ What,” quoth the Bailiff, “ won't he see me then ?”
“ Nay,” Înuffled Nathan, “let it not thus strike thee; “ Know, verily, that WILLIAM PENN
“ Hath seen thee, but he doth not like thee.”
HOW COLD IT IS!
the bluftring Boreas blows,
On hill and vale,
While low and high
Are heard to cry,
In town or vale,
Where'er the tale
To those who know how cold it is!
Perchance some warrior, blind and lam’d,
Through winter's reign,
Relieve their pain,
Their wants supply,
Whene'er they cry,
On hill or dale,
Though sharp the gale,
The blood shall glow,
And sweetly flow,
“ How cold it is!"
E L EGY
On the Death of a Husband.
My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee? Nor nymph, nor grace, of all the fancy'd train, Nor weeping loves shall aid my pensive strain : True passion has a force too strong for art; She needs no Muse who can invoke her heart :
Tasteless of forms, and from all comfort torn,
The husband-lover-and the friendI mourn!
full soul's ambition was thy praise.
Oh! he could talk-'twas ecstacy to hear;
Fancy still paints him fresh in ev'ry grace,
care, • Heav'n, for thy fake, will hear a dying pray'r;
Will lead and comfort thee when I am dead; . When from these aching eyes thy form is fled: • When these cold hands, which now thy grasp implore, < Shall tremble at the touch of thine no more. • Oh! where shall my unsocial spirit stray, • How err, unbleft, along th' eternal way. * From all engagements here I now am free, • But that which keeps my lingʻring soul with thee.
• How I have lov'd, thy bleeding heart can tell, . And we may meet-till which dear time, farewell !"
He ceas'd—and waiting angels caught his breath, And his quench'd eyes dissolv'd their beams in death! But, oh! what words have passion to express, What thought can feel, the rage of my diftress ? Why did they tear me from the breathless clay? I should have staid, and wept my life away: Yet, gentle shade! where'er thou now may'lt dwell, Where'er thy spirit does the rest excel, If thou canst listen to my grief, oh! take The softest vows that love and truth can make
For thee, my thoughts all pleasure Thall forego; My tears for thee shall stream in secret woe. • Far from the busy world I will retire, • Where mournful mem'ry feeds the filent fire: « First taught by thee the noblest flame to prove, · The force, the life, the elegance of love! • Sacred I will to thee thy gift confine,
Grasp thee through death, and be for ever thine !'
THE ART OF PRINTING.
To speak to eyes, and paint unbody'd thought ! Though deaf and dumb, bless'd skill! reliev'd by thee, We make one sense perform the task of three ; We see, we hear, we touch the head and heart, And take, or give, what each but yields in part ; With the hard laws of distance we dispense, And without found, apart, commune in sense ; View, though confin'd, nay rule this earthly ball, And travel o'er the wide expanded all; Dead letters thus, with living notions fraught, Prove to the soul the telescopes of thought ; To mortal life a deathless witness give, And bid all deeds and titles last and live;