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His heart's beft chord was yet in ture,
Unfnapp'd by cold feverity;
Touch'd was that chord-his dim
Suffufed fenfibility.

eye

beam'd

" 'Tis juft, (he faid,) that where thou ly'ft, "The carelefs thepherd boy fhould lie; "Thou dy't, poor fool! for want of food; “I fall, for fuff'ring thee to die.

"But, O my master!"-broken-fhort-
Was ev'ry half-word now he fpoke-
"Severe has been thy conftant will,
"And galling fure thy heavy yoke.

"But yet,

in all my beft,' have I "Without a 'plaint my hardfhips bore; "Rufus!-may all my pangs be past"Mafter!-my fuff'rings are no more. "A warmer couch haft thou to press, "Secure from cramping frofts thy feet; "And could'ft thou boaft fo free a breast, "Thou yet might'ft die a death as sweet. "My trufty dog-that wiftful look

"Is all that makes my poor heart heave; "But hie thee home-proclaim me dead, Forget to think-and cease to grieve."

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So faying, fhrunk the hapless youth
Beneath the chilling grafp of death;
And clafping poor Tray's fhaggy neck,
Sigh'd gently forth his parting breath.
His faithful, fond, fagacious dog,

Hung watchful o'er his master's clay;
And many a moan the old fool made,
And many a thing he ftrove to fay.

He paw'd him with his hard-worn foot,
He lick'd him with his fcarce warm tongue;
His cold nofe ftrove to catch his breath,
As to his clos'd lips clofe it clung.

But not a fign of lurking life,

Thro' all his frame, he found to creep;

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He knew not what it was to die,
But knew his mafter did not fleep.
For ftill had he his flumbers watch'd,
Through many a long and difmal night;
And rous'd him from his pallet hard,
To meet his toil ere morning light.
And well his brain remember'd yet,
He never patter'd tow'rds his bed;
Or lodg'd his long face on his cheek,
But ftraight he firr'd, or rais'd his head.
Yes, he remember'd, and with tears,
His loving mafter's kind replies;
When dumbly he contriv'd to fay,

"The cock has crow'd, my mafler, rife."

But now the paw, the scratch, the whine,
To howlings chang'd, alone can tell
The fuff'rings of inftinctive love,
When fruitlefs prov'd its fimple fpell.

Great grief affail'd his untaught heart,
And quickly laid its victim low!
His mafter's cheek-his pillow cold,
Their common bed-the colder fnow!

TO HOPE.

ROCKLEWOOD.

Heav'n-born Hope! beft friend of Mis'ry's child,
Thon-bor trancendent of the Pow's on high!

Oh! deign to vifit one, whofe heart, defpoil'd
Of ev'ry joy, on thee would ftill rely!

Long, long have I beneath life's fhades reclin'd,
And long by wanton Fortune been deceiv'd,
Yet fill thy promis'd funfhine footh'd my mind;
And faid,
"To-morrow all will be retriev'd."

Depriv'd of thee, ah! whither fhall I go?
See, fell Defpair with haggard eye appears!

Oh! fave me! fave me! but one fmile beflow,
To daunt that fiend, and diffipate my fears.

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SUBDU'D by Grief, low at thy injur'd shrine,
Refignation! let me humbly fall;

Nor more fhall I at Fate's decrees repine,
Since thy propitious hand can yield me all.

The primrofe pale, that blooms beneath the thorn,
Protected grows from elemental fhock;
While from the cloud-encircled hills are torn
The lofty cedar and the knotted oak.

Ev'n so would I, fecure from Fortune's frown,
In life's fequefter'd vale unnotic'd dwell;
The tinfel fplendour of the world disown,
And ev'ry lawless gust of passion quell.—
To prefcient Heav'n's all-potent will refign'd,
In folitude ferene I'll more than pleasure find!

TO CONTENTMENT.

BY THE SAME.

B Unknown to avarice or lavish glee,

ENEATH my lowly roof I'll live at eafe,

There joyful fpend the circling year in peace, Divine Contentment! while I dwell with thee. On Alpine hills behold the fun-beat hind, Remote from care, amid his flock repofe, While pleafing dreams of fancy foothe his mind, And light-wing'd Zephyrus around him blows.

No thought ambitious fires his tranquil foul,
No parfimonious luft of wealth is there;
The gifts of Nature all these thoughts control,
And for celeftial fcenes his mind prepare.-

'Tis mild Contentment that becalms his breast;-
Oh! then, beneath thy shade with Virtue let me reft!

SONNET.

ROSCOE.

Go place the fwallow on yon turfy bed,

Much will he struggle, but can never rise;

Go raise him even with the daify's head,
And the poor twitt'rer like an arrow flies.

So oft, through life, the man of pow'rs and worth,
Haply the cat'rer for an infant train,

Like BURNS, must struggle on the bare-worn earth,
While all his efforts to arife are vain.

Yet fhould the hand of relative, or friend,
Juft from the furface lift the fuff'ring wight,
Soon would the wings of industry extend,
Soon would he rife from anguifh to delight.-

Go then, ye affluent! go, your hands out-ftretch, And, from defpair's dark verge, oh! raise the woeworn wretch.

STR

THE COACH AND CART.

GUION.

IR Dazzle's Coach, in gaudy flate,
Was ftanding at the open gate,
When, lo! the farming Cart came out,
And Coach was forc'd to turn about-
Then drawing up, with high difdain,
In language infolent and w

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...The Cart addrefs'd Thou low-liv'd thing Faugh! what a horrid fcent you bring"Do, pray be gone-no longer hurt

My nofe refin'd-with filthy dirt"But t'other day, your horfes' heels "Befpatter'd my new-painted wheels"Begone, thou wretch-go; carry hay, "Your dung, your firaw, your gravel-clay; Keep diftance due, nor dare approach "The prefence of your mafter's Coach."

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With modeft tone, the Cart reply'd, "Thou gaudy thing! I fpurn thy pride: "Yet, pompous gewgaw! know from me, My labour's the fupport of thee!

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"Did I not early toil, and late,

"Thou foon wouldft drop thy boasted state"Did I not groan beneath manure, "The equipage would not be fure— "And thould I not the mart attend,

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Thy dignity would have an end

"I grant thou haft fome little ufe;
"But why throw out fuch low abufe?
"Learn reafon-act thy proper part
"We both are fervants-Coach and Cart."

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