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Her veil opaque, difclofes with a fmile
The author of her beautics, who, retir'd
Behind his own creation,' works unfeen
By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied.
Thou art the fource and centre of all minds,
Their only point of reft, Eternal Word !
From thee departing, they are loft, and rove
At random, without honour, hope or, peace.
From thee is all that foothes the life of man,
His high endeavour, and his glad fuccefs,
His ftrength to fuffer, and his will to ferve.
But, oh! thou bounteous Giver of all Good,
Thou art of all thy gifts thy felf the crown!
Give what thou canft; without thee we are poor,
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

ON

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EMPLOYMENT.

BY THE SAME.

OW various his employments, whom the world
Calls idle, and who juftly, in return,

Efteems that bufy world an idler too!

Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,

And Nature in her cultivated trim

Drefs'd to his tafte inviting him abroad-
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me, therefore, ftudious of laborious ease,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not waste it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When he fhall call his debtors to account,
From whom are all our bleffings, bus'nefs find
Ev'n here. While fedulous I feek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd
The mind he gave; driving it, though flack
Too oft and much impeded in his work
By causes not to be divulg’d in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior felf,

That has a heart and keeps it has a mind
That hungers and fupplies it; and who feeks
A focial, not a diffipated life,

Has bufiuefs. Feels himself engaged to achieve
No unimportant, though a filent task.

A life all turbulence and noise may seem
To him that leads it wife, and to be prais'd;
But wisdom is a pearl with most fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in ftorms,
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly induftrious, a difgraceful prize.

ON

SLAVE R Y.

BY THE SAME.

H for a lodge in fome vaft wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,

Where rumour of oppreffion and deccit,
Of unsuccessful and fuccefsful war,

Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd,
My foul is fick with every day's report

Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,

It does not feel for man. The nat'ral bond

Of brotherhood is fever'd as the flax

That fails afunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin

Not colour'd like his own; and having power
T' inforce the wrong for fuch a worthy caufe,
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands interfected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd,
Make enemies of nations, who had elfe,
Like kindred drops, been mingl'd into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and deftroys;
And worfe than all, and most to be deplor'd,
As human nature's, Broadeft, fouicft blot,
Chains him and talks him, and exa&ts his fweat

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With ftripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart
Weeps when the fees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man feeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush
And hang his head, to think himself a man?
I would not have a flave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That finews bought and fold have ever earn'd.
No; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Juft eftimation priz'd above all price,
I had much rather be myself the flave,
And wear the bonds, than faften them on him.
We have no flaves at home-then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd,
Slaves cannot breathe in England, if their lungs
Receive the air, that moment they are free,
They touch our country, and their shakles fall
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the bleffing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through ev'ry vein,

Of all your empire, That where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her merey too.

ON

DEATH.

A NIGHT PIECE,

BY PARNEL.

Y the blue taper's trembling light

BY

No more I waste the wakeful night,

Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the fages o'er:
Their books from wisdom widely ftray
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wifdom's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dies the sky!
Where orbs of gold benumber'd lie;
While through their ranks, in filver pride,
The nether crefcent feems to glide
The flumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is fmooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled fhow
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire
In dimnefs from the view retire;
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the filent waters laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the lived gleams of night.

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