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O let th' afpiring warrior think, with grief,
That as produc'd by chymic art refin'd,
So glitt'ring conqueft, from the laurel-leaf,
Extracts a gen❜ral poison for mankind.
Here let him wander at the midnight hour,
These morbid rains, these gelid gales to meet ;
And mourn, like me, the ravages of pow'r!
And feel, like me, that vict'ry is defeat!
Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to fwell
My feeble verfe with many a founding name;
Of fuch the mercenary bard may tell,

And call fuch dreary defolation, fame.

The genuine muse removes the thin disguise

That cheats the world, whene'er fhe deigns to fing; And full as meritorious to her eyes

Seems the poor foldier as the mighty king!

Alike I fhun in labour'd ftrain to show,

How Britain more than triumph'd, though fhe fled,
Where Louis ftood, where ftalk'd the column flow;
I turn from these, and dwell upon the dead.
Yet much my beating breast respects the brave,
Too well I love them not to mourn their fate;
Why fhould they feek for greatnefs in the grave?
Their hearts are noble, and in life they're great.

Nor think 'tis but in war the brave excel-
To valour ev'ry virtue is ally'd!

Here faithful friendship 'mid the battle fell,
And love, true love, in bitter anguish dy'd.

Alas! the folemn flaughter I retrace,

That checks life's current, circling through my veins, Bath'd in moift forrow many a beauteous face,

And gave a grief, perhaps, that ftill remains.

I can no more-an agony too keen

Abforbs my fenfes, and my mind fubdues:
Hard were that heart which here could beat ferene,
Or the juft tribute of a pang refufe.

But, lo! through yonder op'ning clouds afar
Shoots the bright planet's fanguinary ray,
That bears thy name, fictitious lord of war!
And with red luftre guides my lonely way.

Then, Fontenoy, farewell! yet much I fear,
(Wherever chance my courfe compels,) to find
Difcord and blood-the thrilling founds I hear,
"The noife of battle hurtles in the wind."

From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's fhore,
Oppofing int'refts into rage increase,
Destruction rears her fceptre, tumults roar;
Ah! where fhall hapless man repofe in peace?

NOW

CORIN'S PROFESSION.

BY PETER PINDAR, ESQ.

OW, Joan, we are marry'd-and now let me fay, Tho' both are in youth, yet that youth will decay; In our journey through life, my dear Joan, I fuppofe, We shall oft meet a Bramble, and sometimes a Rofe !

When a cloud on this forehead fhall darken my day,
Thy funfhine of sweetness muft fmile it away;
And when the dull vapour fhall dwell upon thine,
To chafe it the labour and triumph be mine.

Thou shalt milk our one cow, and, if Fortune purfuc,
In good time, with her bleffing, my Joan fhall milk two.
I will till our fmall field, while my prattle and fong
Shall charm, as I drive the bright ploughfhare along.
When finish'd the day, by the fire we'll regale,
And treat our good neighbour at eve with our ale;
For, Joan, who could wish for felf only to live,
One bleffing of life, my dear girl, is to give.

E'en the Red-breast and Wren fhall not feek us in vain,
While thou haft a crumb, or thy Corin a grain;
Not only their fongs will they pour from the grove,
But yield by example fweet leffons of love.

Tho' thy beauty muft fade, yet thy youth I'll remember,
That thy May was my own, when thou fhoweft December;
And when age to my head fhall his winter impart,
The fummer of love fhall repofe in my heart!

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aly kambi, snow hat here be feen; As fult mer nence mride,

Wo way ile, nor fallen fpleen.
The Penborny tocka, that circle round,
Prom forma thail guard our fylvan cell;

And there twal ev'ry joy be found,
The loves in peaceful vales to dwell.

When late the tardy fun fhall peer,
And family gild yon little fpire;
When nights are long, and frofts fevere,
And our clean hearth is bright with fire;
Aweet tales to read, fweet fongs to fing!
O! they thall drown the wind and rain,
F'en till the totten'd featon bring
The merry (pring-time back again!

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Their jocund pow'rs can banish ftrife,
Her clouds no paffing day will fee;
Since all the leisure hours of life
Shall ftill be spent in pleasing thee.

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Tidol fublime! Error's moft glorious god 1
HOU dazzling ball! vaft universe of flame!
Whose peerless fplendours plead in the excufe
Of him that worships thee, and fhine away,
The fin of pagan knees! whofe awful orb,
Though Truth informs my more enlighten'd creed,
Almoft entices my o'er-ravifh'd heart
To turn idolator, and tempts my mouth
To kifs my hand before thee: Nature's pride!
Of matter most magnificent difplay!
Bright mafter-piece of dread Omnipotence!
Ocean of fplendour! wondrous world of light!
Thy fweet return my kindled lays falute.

Hail, amiable vision! ev'ry eye

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Looks up and loves thee: ev'ry tongue proclaims,
'Tis pleasant to behold thee; rofy Health
And laughing Joy, thy beauteous daughters, play
Before thy face for ever, and rejoice..

In thine indulgent ray. Nature mourns
Thine annual departure; in despair,
Like one forfaken by her love, fhe fits,
And tears from off her all her gay attire,
And drowns her face in tears, and languid lies,
As if of life devoid; but lo, fhe lives!.
She lives again! her glorious rover comes,
To wake her from her lethargy of woe,
And warm her into beauty with a smile.

Fountain of infpiration! fir'd by thee,
Imagination's facred tumults rife,

And pour upon the fair, immortal page,
The fplendid image and the burning word!
O hallow'd hour! o'erflowing with delight!
Moments of more than earthly ecftacy!
When the bleft bard, panting beneath thy rays,
Feels the fine rapture filently infus'd
Into his agitated breaft; and full

Of his bright god, with lofty fury raves,
Celestially disturb'd! till the ftrong flames,
That his whole foul to heav'nly madness heat,
Have spent their blaze in all the rage of fong!

Great conflagration! whofe immortal fires,
With myftic, everlasting fuel fed,

Flame with a gen'rous fury; flame to fpread
Far other scene than fmoaking ruin round,
Fair flow'rs and fmiling verdure, fields that wave
With yellow wealth, and boughs that floop beneath
Their blushing load, with affluence oppreft!

Great father of the fyftem! round whose throne,
In filial circles, all thy children fhine,
Exulting in thy kind paternal smile!
Well-order'd family! for ever free
From jarring ftrife; harmonious moving on
In eafy dance; and calling human life
To lift the mufic of your filent glide,
And make its focial fyftem chime like yours.
Preceptors fweet of concert and of love!
Had but this noisy scene an ear to learn.

Or is thy name the ftudent's facred lamp,
Hung up on high, and trimm'd by Heav'n's own hand?
By whofe pure light, more precious to his eye,
Than that which trembles on his nightly page,

(Man's puny tome,) with filent joy he reads

The broad, inftructive fheet, which thou haft held,
All-wife inftructor! to thy pupil man,

Through ev'ry age. Invaluable book!

In schools unrival'd, though but little read!
Fair, faultlefs piece! immortal work of Heav'n!
Bible of ages! boundlefs word of God!
Writ in a language to all nations known;
And, through all time, with care divine preferv'd
From all corrupt interpolations pure.

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