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Near to that little mound of earth,
Fain would I rest my wearied head,
For I'm a joyless pilgrim here,

And none would seek my narrow bed.
Reflection wounds me in the past;
To-morrow brings not hope to me;
O, sainted form! O, parent blest!
Would I had bow'd to earth with thee!

I think of eve's long wish'd-for hours,
When joyous home from school I flew;
And with affection's dearest kiss,
My arms around her neck I threw.
Tho' luxury our board ne'er grac'd,

'Midst poverty content was giv'n,

And all that wealth or wisdom boast,

Are nought without this boon of Heav'n

Still could I find a haven of rest

On her pure bosom, fondly lov'd; And all hope's wanton dreams of bliss, Were, with a smile, by her approv'd:

Her lessons led to virtue's path;

Her num'rous sorrows were made mine; And ever present is her look,

When now I welcome life's decline.

Long ere ten times I'd seen blythe spring Spread o'er the earth her fostʼring dews, Cold were the lips I weeping kiss'd,

And I was told heart-rending news. Whate'er my fate, whate'er my care,

While in this frame life's pulse shall beat,

All worldly ills I'll patient bear,
And fondly hope with her to meet.

Vol. II.

INSCRIPTION WRITTEN AT CORBY CASTLE,

THE ROMANTIC SEAT OF HENRY HOWARD, ESQ.

"Let others praise the LEASOWE's plains,
Where SHENSTONE tun'd his love-lorn strains
What, tho' he sung of groves, and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murmuring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel-haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook ;
"Twas ART and FANCY brought to view,
What NATURE here presents to you."

READER, if rocks, woods, waters, lawns, and meads,
Or aught of nature's captivating dress,-

If warbling hymns in the Creator's praise,
Pour'd all around from many a balmy brake,

Thy mind can charm; thrice welcome to these shades,
Where peace and mild content for ever dwell.
Now while thy wearied limbs at rest are laid,
In some sequester'd bow'r free from all noise;
Save melodies from many a woodland choir,

Or Eden murmʼring o'er his rocky bed:
Bethink thee, as the waters glide along,
So pass thy days; but never to return.

If e'er the lofty pine attract thine eye,

"Twill lead thy thoughts to Heav'n. In musing mood, The wide-stretched mountain, the proud oak-crown'd

rock,

The wood of many hues, the far-heard stream,
The sportive flock that graze the velvet lawn;
Nay ev'n the grassy turf o'er which we tread,
Green habitation of the insect world,

Each speaks in silent eloquence of God.

Perchance, in quest of rural nook thou stray'st, A stranger to these much-lov'd scenes; then know, The virtuous owners of this blest abode, By justice, charity, and boundless love, Endearing man to man, examples great, Give lustre never-fading to the spot.

If in thy bosom beats a patriot's heart, Indignant at the threats and murd'rous deeds Of him, thy happy country's high-swol'n foe; Lo! HOWARD hails thee, welcome to his seat. But should cold apathy enslave thy mind,

And thou of England's weal regardless roam'st;
Or feel'st not for thy brethren, Afric's sons,
By Europeans torn from friends and home,
Exil'd for ever for thy luxuries;

Weak votary to pleasure, pride, or pow'r,
Hence, laugh with folly in the noisy town!
July, 1803.

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