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The marks of Sickness ne'er deceive;
The signs of Death you must believe;
The wasted form, and pallid cheek,
And catching breath, to Pity speak;
And when the mangled Wretch you meet,
Dragging his remnants through the street,
E'en tho' the boastive wound he shows,
And tells the story of his blows,
His naval feats, or martial scars,
And all the trophies of his wars;
Ah! think not these a borrow'd tale-
The marks of Truth can never fail;
And if th' assisting limbs are gone,
The reliques are Compassion's own;
When half the active man is dead,
Unfit to dig, he begs for bread,

And, oh! unnumber'd ills behind
Have claims upon the generous mind;
Full many are the wants reveal'd,
But more and deeper are conceal'd:
These never meet the general eye;
Unseen the Tear, unheard the Sigh;
Like waters mighty and profound,
Oft out of sight, alas! and sound!
Oh, let thy feet their haunts explore!
Oh, let thy hand their hopes restore!
Oh, let thy bounty here impart
A solace to the breaking heart!

Still many a varying theme, dear Youth,
Of import great to wholesome Truth,

The

The Muse of Friendship has to sing,
When hast'ning Time shall on his wing
The Years of riper Thought produce,
And make the Verse of greater Use.

"Twere but a waste of mental power To antedate Reflection's hour; Ambition, Vengeance, Love of Gain, And Passion's mad and fateful Train, And phrensied Jealousy, and Pride, And many a foe to Man beside, And Love itself, the child of Care, To bid you now of these beware;To tell you, though like Heav'n they smile, Not Hell itself can more beguile; Would be to crowd the present time With Forms of yet unthought-of crime.As life proceeds, Affection's eye Shall watch the Seasons as they fly; Th' attendant Muse shall still be near, And like some Guardian Sylph appear; Note all a generous heart should know, To aid your progress here below.

Till then, dear Youth, be blithe as May, Nor cloud with care Youth's holiday; Nor let a presage intervene

To disemparadise the scene:

Be still good-humour'd, gay, and kind,

AND BUILD A HEAV'N WITHIN YOUR MIND.

LINES

PRESENTED TO THE SAME, WITH THE
"BRITISH NEPOS*."

ENOUGH of Greece and Rome, and every Name
Sacred at once to Virtue and to Fame;

Whate'er the World's imperial Mistress taught,
Her Warriors conquer'd, or her Students thought,
In Latian Realms, the Brave, the Good, the Wise,
The Schools will place before your wond'ring eyes.
SOLON the Good, and PLATO the Divine,
And the proud Chieftains of the CÆSAR line;
TULLY the Learn'd, and SENECA the Sage,
Are all emblazon'd in the classic page;
Of these already you have read the praise―
Their fame-the lesson of your boyish days.

But, ah! the fervors of my patriot heart
Would now a pleasure nearer home impart ;
Sanction'd by Truth, and touch'd with fond delight,
Would Albion's Heroes set before your sight:
Her Native Rights, with heart enraptur'd, show,
And teach your bosom, like my own, to glow;
All that is Briton in your soul would fire,
And many a god-like energy inspire.

In this rich volume, dearest Youth, survey
The awful claims our Albion may display:
Oh! take the Gift, and sacred be its place;
'Tis a rare Jewel in a beauteous case,

* An excellent class-book for the emulation of youth, by Dr. MAVOR,

Fix

Fix it on faithful Mem'ry's Tablet fair,

And guard it with a more than filial care:
The story of your Birth-right there behold,
Where generous Thoughts, and Deeds sublime, are told.

See, and admire, array'd in order due,
As the Historian moves his pencil true;
The Worthies of the Isle,-a chosen Band!
As in their days of nature" seem to stand;
Breathing of Virtue pure, and Sense refin'd,
The boast of Man,-the Lords of human kind!
Vivid and warm, lo Bards and Heroes shine,
Proud Rome and Athens! bright and brave as thine;
Or thine, immortal Greece! though HOMER strung
His deathless harp till all thy mountains rung.

Praise to the Heathen Lyre! wherever found
Talent, or Worth, let Glory's Trumpet sound;
Wherever awful Genius may reside,
The Muse shall hail it with a patriot pride:
Light of the Earth! it is the spark of Heav'n !
Not to one Clime, but to all Nature giv'n:
Shine where it may, with homage will I bend,
Not to a Foe, but to Creation's Friend.

Thus Sol's blest beams, though in the East they rise,
Spread more and more till they illume the skies;
To Nature's utmost bounds diffuse the day,
And countless worlds partake the genial ray.

Yet let us to our own fair fame be true;
Ourselves to reverence, is no maxim new;
The Christian Lyre, and Laurel, sure, commands
The Wreath of Honours wove by Christian hands;

Our

Our ALFREDS, SYDNEY'S, NEWTONS, HAMPDENS, claim;
BACON of wise, and DRAKE of glorious fame;
MILTON, the British Muses' darling boast;
And Avon's matchless Bard-himself a Host!

These, and unnumber'd more like these, appear,
And the fair Volume, which I send, endear:
As in a pictur'd Gallery, here you find
The form and figure of BRITANNIA's mind,
Tints of her heart, and touches of her soul,
Wrought by the Painter to a beauteous whole,
Here you observe her shine divinely fair,
Her Friends' just Glory, and her Foes' Despair,

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