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A few, however, yet expect to find
Among the misty millions of mankind,
Who proudly stoop to aid an injur'd cause,
And o'er the sneer of coxcombs force applause;
Who with felt pleasure see fair Virtue rise,
And lift her upwards to the beckoning prize;
Or mark her labouring in the modest breast,
And honour her the more the more deprest.

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Thee, Savage! these (the justly great) admire ; Thee, quick'ning judgment's phlegm with fancy's Thee, slow to censure, earnest to commend, [ fire; An able critic, but a willing friend.

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AN EPISTLE

TO A FRIEND IN TOWN*.

HAVE my friends in the Town, in the

Forgot such a man as John Dyer ?

gay busy [Town

Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown,
Whose bosom no pageantries fire?

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No matter, no matter-content in the shades-
(Contented!-why every thing charms me)
Fall in tunes all adown the green steep, ye Cascades!
Till hence rigid virtue alarms me.

* Among the poems of Mr. Savage there is one to Mr. Dyer, in answer to

Till Outrage arises, or Misery needs
The swift, the intrepid avenger;

Till sacred Religion or Liberty bleeds,
Then nine be the deed and the danger.

Alas! what a folly, what wealth and domain
We heap up in sin and in sorrow!

Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?

Then glide on my moments, the few that I have,
Smooth-shaded, and quiet, and ev'n,

While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heav'n.

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