"Truth ought ever to pass free as the air we breathe!"
NEAR Lagan's banks, a mile from town,
A rural whiten'd cottage stands;
The hamlets, halls, and hills of Down,
And many a prospect it commands:
It fronts the road, where haughty pride
And honest poverty throng by ;
But few they are who turn aside,
On this lone cot to cast an eye.
Yet, it contains a matchless form,
As youthful fancy ever drew;
And in that form a heart as warm,
As meek philanthropist e'er knew:
And it contains as fair a face,
As ever forc'd a sigh from man;
Each winning smile, each witching grace
Are center'd all in Marianne.
Yet beauty is a short-liv'd flow'r,
Ev'n when in dazzling tints array'd;
It blossoms, withers, in an hour,
But mental beauties never fade:
Think, thus, ye fair in giddy youth,
Who whirl o'er fashion's gilded round ;
Leave not to time to tell this truth,
Too late, in age, it oft is found.
She who in this low cot résides,
To pride, to beauty, wisely blind,
The follies of her sex derides,
But gladly wou'd improve each mind:
Now turning" nature's volume o'er ;"
Now shunning sanguinary man;
Now culling, weighing useful lore;
Thus pass the days of Marianne.
When Spring dissolves stern Winter's chain,
And vegetation ventures forth,
She marks the flow'rets on the plain,
Just emblems of her modest worth:
When health, her guide, in Summer leads
To some sequester'd cool alcove,
The rising produce of the meads
Points to that Pow'r, who reigns above.
When Autumn's sheaves, and saffron'd leaves
Again tell angry Winter near,
By study, she the gloom deceives,
Or converse sweet, with friends sincere: Still proving, that from virtue spring The greatest pleasures known to manLong may each changing season bring Health, joy, and peace to Marianne!
SPOKEN BY MR. GRANT, IN CARLISLE, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MRS. JOHNSON, AND HER NUMEROUS FAMILY.
"True generosity rises above the ordinary rule of social conduct, and flows with much too full a stream to be comprehended within the precise marks of formal precepts. It is a vigorous principle in the soul, which opens and expands all her virtues, far beyond those which are only the forced and unnatural productions of a timid obedience." MELMOTH.
ENOUGH of war! and all his hell-born train;
Britannia rides triumphant o'er the main;
And when sweet peace her olive branch displays,
Then, as in war, she gains all Europe's praise:
For all the glories conquest e'er could dart,
Are trifles, balanc'd with the feeling heart;
And all the honours wealth cou'd e'er bestow,
Proves that proud man is but the child of woe.
Is there, this night, a heart that cannot feel?
To such, the Muse, indignant, scorns t' appeal;
But ye who scorn the pride of giving pain,
Nor suff'ring mortals treat with cold disdain,
But soothe distress, and dry affliction's tear,
Rejoic'd I feel, to bid you welcome here:
And ye who know the widow'd parent's cares,
And all the pangs that oft her bosom tears;
The anxious watchings o'er an infant race,
An image still in memory to trace ;
Ye fairest works of nature, who possess
The pow'r to succour, and to shield distress,
Fair advocates in sacred virtue's cause-
Denied to speak the gratitude she owes,
A sister bids me pay the tribute due;
And tell the sympathy she found in you.
Cherish'd in tender youth, like some fair flow'r,
Hope brighten'd with her prospect, ev'ry hour;
But cold neglect to damp each joy soon strove,
And she was criminal, who dar'd to love.
Deserted, virtue still approv'd her choice,
And you'll acquit her with a friendly voice.
If doom'd to wander from her native home,
And with the sons of indigence to roam,
A patron in the public, pleas'd she found,
And oft her efforts were with plenty crown'd;
While love's dear transports lull'd each care to rest,
And mutual fondness made a couple blest;
But gone is he, her soul's lov'd lord, by fate
Summon'd to pass eternity's dark gate.
Receive, blest shade! this tribute due to worth; Tho' now remembrance calls fresh sorrows forth:
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