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This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,

And please, if any thing could please. But fix'd unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where,

And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread

This moss grown alley musing slow;
They seek like me the secret shade,

But not like me to nourish woe!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.


WEAK and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,

Vice seems already slain;
But Passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part; Virtue engages his assent,

But Pleasure wins his heart. 'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view;
And, while his tongue the charge denies,

His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length

And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,

Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail

To reach the distant coast:
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,

Or all the toil is lost.


The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace with which they steal away
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when pass’d,
And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,
A difference strikes at length the musing heart;
Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound
How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd!
But Time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.


ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maidSilent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon

her destined course: Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and bless'd where'er she goes, Pure bosom'd as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.

SONG ON PEACE. AIR—“ My fond shepherds of late," &c. No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue;
O Happiness! not to be found,

Unattainable treasure, adieu!
I have sought thee in splendour and dress,

In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem’d to possess,

But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope

And the summit of all our desires. Peace may be the lot of the mind

That seeks it in meekness and love: But rapture and bliss are confined

To the glorified spirits above.


AIR" The Lass of Patie's Mill.When all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile!
Delights that never cease,

The livelong day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,

hand she showers Fresh blessings to deceive

And sooth the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart

Enlivens all it sees: Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye

As peep of early day. The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd In nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.


LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Udritten when the News arrived,

SEPT. 1782.

To the March in Scipio.

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last seafight is fought;

His work of glory done. It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,

With twice four hundred men.

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