Beauties of the muses: or, Select sentimental poems and elegies, viz. I. The hermit. By Dr. Parnell. II. Elegy in a church yard. By Mr. Gray. III. The traveller. By Dr. Goldsmith. IV. Death. A poem. By Dr. Porteus. V. Deserted village. By Dr. Goldsmith. VI. Hermit of the dale. By ditto. VII. Futurity. Extract from Dr. Dodd. : [Two lines of text] : Illustrated with beautiful engravings. Approx. 125 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 207 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI : 2008-09. N19311 N19311 Evans 25149 APY2867 25149 99029953

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Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 25149. (Evans-TCP ; no. N19311) Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 25149) Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 25149) Beauties of the muses: or, Select sentimental poems and elegies, viz. I. The hermit. By Dr. Parnell. II. Elegy in a church yard. By Mr. Gray. III. The traveller. By Dr. Goldsmith. IV. Death. A poem. By Dr. Porteus. V. Deserted village. By Dr. Goldsmith. VI. Hermit of the dale. By ditto. VII. Futurity. Extract from Dr. Dodd. : [Two lines of text] : Illustrated with beautiful engravings. Seymour, Joseph H., engraver. Hill, Samuel, 1766?-1804, engraver. [4], i, [4], 6-211, [1] p., [6] leaves of plates : ill. ; 14 cm. (12mo) by Isaiah Thomas. Sold at his bookstore in Worcester; by said Thomas, and Andrews, in Boston; and by said Thomas, and Carlisle, in Walpole, Newhampshire., Printed at Worcester [Mass.], : MDCCXCIII. [1793] Plates engraved by Joseph Seymour and Samuel Hill.

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Published by Isaiah Thomas 1793.

Hermit.

Beauties of the Muſes. OR, SELECT SENTIMENTAL POEMS AND ELEGIES, VIZ. I. THE HERMIT. By Dr. PARNELL. II. ELEGY IN A CHURCH YARD. By Mr. Gray. III. THE TRAVELLER. By Dr. GOLDSMITH. IV. DEATH. A POEM. By Dr. PORTEUS. V. DESERTED VILLAGE. By Dr. GOLDSMITH. VI. HERMIT OF THE DALE. By Ditto. VII. FUTURITY. Extract from Dr. DODD.

TO WAKE THE SOUL— —TO MEND THE HEART.

Illuſtrated with beautiful Engravings.

Printed at Worceſter, BY ISAIAH THOMAS. Sold at his Bookſtore in WORCESTER; by ſaid THOMAS, and ANDREWS, in BOSTON; and by ſaid THOMAS, and CARLISLE, in WALPOLE, Newhampſhire. MDCCXCIII.

Preface.

THE ſentiment and beauty, contained in the Poetry of this Collection, being ſo univerſally admired, that, at the requeſt of a number of friends, the Editor has been induced to lay them before the publick, in one Volume.

The owner of this little work, will find it no diſgraceful companion: And the merit of the authors of the ſeveral pieces contained in it, is ſuch, as to claim a place in the beſt libraries.

Worceſter, 1793.
Contents. 1. THE Hermit. By Dr. Parnell. Page. 5 2. Elegy; written in a Country Church Yard. By Mr. Gray. Page. 35 The Epitaph. Page. 47 3. The Traveller; or a Proſpect of Society. By Dr. Goldſmith. Page. 51 4. Death. A Poem. By Dr. Porteus. Page. 93 5. The Deſerted Village. By Dr. Goldſmith. Page. 127 6. Hermit of the Dale. A Ballad, from the Vicar of Wakefield. Page. 171 7. Futurity. By Dr. Dodd. Page. 185

THE HERMIT. [By Dr. PARNELL.]

THE HERMIT. —I may aſſert eternal Providence, And juſtify the ways of God to man. MILTON. FAR in a wild, unknown to publick view, From youth to age a rev'rend Hermit grew; The moſs his bed—the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the cryſtal well. Remote from man, with God he paſs'd his days, Prayer all his buſineſs, all his pleaſure praiſe. A life ſo ſacred, ſuch ſerene repoſe, Seem'd heav'n itſelf, till one ſuggeſtion roſe; That vice ſhould triumph, virtue vice obey; This ſprung ſome doubt of Providence's ſway. His hopes no more a certain proſpect boaſt, And all the tenor of his ſoul is loſt. So when a ſmooth expanſe receives impreſs'd Calm Nature's image on its wat'ry breaſt, Down bend the banks, the trees impending grow, And ſkies beneath with anſwering colours glow. But if a ſtone the gentle ſea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry ſide; And glimm'ring fragments of a broken ſun; Banks, trees, and ſkies in thick diſorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by ſight, To find if books or ſwains report it right, (For yet by ſwains alone the world he knew, Whoſe feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim's ſtaff he bore, And fix'd the ſcallop in his hat before; Then with the ſun a riſing journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was waſted in the pathleſs graſs, And long and loneſome was the wild to paſs: But when the ſouthern ſun had warm'd the day, A youth came poſting o'er a croſſing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And ſoft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. Then near approaching, Father, hail! he cry'd; And hail, my ſon! the rev'rend ſire reply'd; Words follow'd words, from queſtion anſwer flow'd, And talk of various kinds deceiv'd the road; Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus ſtands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy claſps an elm around.— But here the youth enjoin'd the eager ſire, Who into hidden truths did much inquire, If he'd in ſilence each event behold, He wou'd to him ſome wond'rous things unfold. Now ſunk the ſun—cloſing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with ſober grey; Nature in ſilence bid the world repoſe; When near the road a ſtately palace roſe: There by the moon, thro' ranks of trees they paſs, Whoſe verdure crown'd their ſloping ſides of graſs. It chanc'd, the noble maſter of the dome Still made his houſe the wand'ring ſtranger's home. Yet ſtill his kindneſs, from a thirſt of praiſe, Prov'd the vain flouriſh of expenſive eaſe. The pair arrive, the livery'd ſervants wait; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate; The table groans with coſtly piles of food, And all is more than hoſpitably good. Then led to reſt, the day's long toil they drown, Deep ſunk in ſleep, and ſilk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn and at the dawn of day Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Freſh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And ſhake the neighbouring wood to baniſh ſleep. Up riſe the gueſts, obedient to the call; An early banquet deck'd the ſplendid hall; Rich, luſcious wine a golden goblet grac'd, Which the kind maſter forc'd his gueſts to taſte: Then pleas'd and thankful from the porch they go, And, but the landlord, none had cauſe of woe; His cup was vaniſh'd; for in ſecret guiſe The younger gueſt purloin'd the glittering prize. Now on they paſs—when far upon the road, The wealthy ſpoil the wily partner ſhew'd. As one who ſpies a ſerpent in his way Gliſt'ning and baſking in the ſummer ray, Diſorder'd ſtops, to ſhun the danger near, Then walks with faintneſs on, and looks with fear: So ſeem'd the ſire, he walk'd with trembling heart: And much he wiſh'd, but durſt not aſk to part:On account of the promiſe at firſt ſetting out. Murm'ring, he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard, That gen'rous actions meet a baſe reward. While thus they paſs, the ſun his glory ſhrouds, The changing ſkies hang out their ſable clouds; A ſound in air preſag'd approaching rain, And beaſts to coverts ſcud acroſs the plain. Warn'd by the ſigns, the wand'ring pair retreat, To ſeek for ſhelter at a neighb'ring ſeat: 'Twas built with turrets on a riſing ground, And ſtrong, and large, and unimprov'd around: Its owner's temper, tim'rous and ſevere, Unkind and griping, caus'd a deſart there. As near the miſer's heavy door they drew, Fierce riſing guſts with ſudden fury blew; The nimble lightning mix'd with ſhow'rs began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driv'n by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. At length ſome pity warm'd the maſter's breaſt: ('Twas then his threſhold firſt receiv'd a gueſt.) Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the ſhiv'ring pair; One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, And Nature's fervour through their limbs recals: Bread of the coarſeſt ſort, with meagre wine, Each hardly granted, ſerv'd them both to dine; And when the tempeſt firſt appear'd to ceaſe, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With ſtill remark the pondering Hermit view'd, In one ſo rich, a life ſo poor and rude; And, Why ſhould ſuch, within himſelf he cry'd, Lock the loſt wealth a thouſand want beſide? But what new marks of wonder ſoon took place In every ſetting feature of his face! When, from his veſt, the young companion bore That cup the generous landlord own'd before; And paid profuſely, with the precious bowl, The ſtinted kindneſs of his churliſh ſoul: Juſt ſunk to earth, the miſer in ſurpriſe, Receiv'd the glitt'ring gift with ſtartled eyes; But 'ere he could recover from his fright, The generous gueſts had travelled from his ſight. Now the briſk clouds in airy tumults fly, The ſun emerging opes an azure ſky; A freſher green the fragrant leaves diſplay, And glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day, While hence they walk, the pilgrim's boſom wrought With all the travail of uncertain thought; His partner's acts without their cauſe appear,To ſteal the cup from the generous man, and give it to a wretch that would ſcarce admit them within his gate. 'Twas there a vice, but ſeem'd a madneſs here. Deteſting that, and pitying this, he goes, Loſt and confounded with the various ſhows. Now Night's dim ſhades again involve the ſky, Again the wand'rers want a place to lie, Again they ſearch, and find a manſion nigh. The ſoil improv'd around, the manſion neat, And neither poorly low, nor idly great: It ſeem'd to ſpeak its maſter's turn of mind, Content, and not for praiſe but virtue, kind. Hither the walkers turn their weary feet, Then bleſs the manſion, and the maſter greet; Their greeting fair, beſtow'd with modeſt guiſe, The courteous maſter hears, and thus replies: Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part: From him you come, from him accept it here, A frank and ſober, more than coſtly cheer. He ſpoke, and bid the welcome table ſpread, Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed; When the grave houſehold round the hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and cloſe the hour with prayer. At length the world, renew'd by calm repoſe, Was ſtrong for toil, the dapple morn aroſe; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the clos'd cradle, where an infant ſlept, And writh'd his neck; the landlord's little pride, O ſtrange return! grew black, and gaſp'd, and dy'd. Horror of horrors! What! his only ſon? How look'd our Hermit when the fact was done? Not hell, tho' hell's black jaws in ſunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more aſſail his heart. Confus'd and ſtruck with ſilence at the deed, He flies—but trembling, fails to fly with ſpeed. His ſteps the youth purſues; the country lay Perplex'd with roads, a ſervant ſhew'd the way; A river croſs'd the path; the paſſage o'er Was nice to find, the ſervant went before; Long arms of oak an open bridge ſupply'd, And deep the waves beneath them bending glide: The youth, who ſeem'd to watch a time to ſin. Approach'd the careleſs guide, and thruſt him in: Plunging he falls, and riſing lifts his head, Then flaſhing turns, and ſinks among the dead. Wild ſparkling rage inflames the Hermit's eyes, He burſts the bands of fear, and madly cries, Deteſted wretch!—But ſcarce his ſpeech began When the ſtrange partner ſeem'd no longer man; His youthful face grew more ſerenely ſweet, His robes turn'd white, and flow'd about his feet: Fair rounds of radiant points inveſt his hair; Celeſtial odours breathe thro' purpled air; And wings, whoſe colours glitter'd like the day, Wide at his back the dazzling plumes diſplay. The form etherial burſts upon his ſight, And moves in all the majeſty of light. Tho' loud at firſt the pilgrim's paſſion grew; Sudden he gaz'd, and wiſt not what to do: Surpriſe in ſecret chains his words ſuſpends, And in a calm his ſettling temper ends. But ſilence here the beauteous angel broke, The voice of muſick raviſh'd as he ſpoke. Thy prayer, thy praiſe, thy life to vice unknown, In ſweet memorial riſe before the throne; Theſe charms ſucceſs in our bright region find, And force an angel down to calm thy mind; For this commiſſion'd, I forſook the ſky; Nay, ceaſe to kneel—thy fellow ſervant, I. Then know the truth of government divine, And let the ſcruples be no longer thine. The maſter juſtly claims that world he made; In this the right of Providence is laid; Its ſacred majeſty through all depends, On uſing ſecond meansSecond means—God often appoints wicked and abandoned wretches to be his inſtruments of juſtice upon others, for ſome ends tending to publick good, though unperceived by human eyes. to work his ends: 'Tis thus, withdrawn in ſtate from human eye, The power exerts its attributes on high: Your actions uſes, nor controls your will, And bids the doubting ſons of men be ſtill. What ſtrange events can ſtrike with more ſurpriſe Than thoſe which lately ſtruck thy wand'ring eyes? Yet taught by theſe, confeſs th' Almighty juſt, And, where you can't unriddle, learn to truſt! The great vain man, who far'd on coſtly food, Whoſe life was too luxurious to be good: Who made his iv'ry ſtands with goblets ſhine, And forc'd his gueſts to morning draughts of wine, Has with the cup, the graceleſs cuſtom loſt, And ſtill he welcomes, but with leſs of coſt. The mean ſuſpicious wretch, whoſe bolted door Ne'er mov'd in pity to the wand'ring poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That heav'n can bleſs, if mortals will be kind; Conſcious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compaſſion touch his grateful ſoul. Thus artiſts melt the ſullen oar of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And looſe from droſs the ſilver runs below. Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half wean'd his ſoul from God; Child of his ageChild of his age—A child born to him when in years, on which he doated too fondly., for him he liv'd in pain, And meaſur'd back his ſteps to earth again. To what exceſſes had his dotage run! But God, to ſave the father, took the ſon. To all but thee, in fits he ſeem'd to go, And 'twas my miniſtry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the duſt, Now owns in tears the puniſhment was juſt. But how had all his fortune felt a wreck, Had the falſe ſervant ſped in ſafety back? This very night, by ſecret plot contriv'd, Of life and wealth his maſter he'd depriv'd; Had he in this conſpiracy prevail'd, What funds of charity would then have fail'd? Thus heav'n inſtructs thy mind: this trial o'er, Depart in peace, reſign, and ſin no more. On ſounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The ſage ſtood wond'ring as the ſeraph flew. Thus look'd Eliſha, when to mount on high, His maſter took the chariot of the ſky: The fiery pomp aſcending, left the view; The prophet gaz'd, and wiſh'd to follow too. The bending Hermit here a prayer begun, "Lord! as in heav'n, on earth thy will be done." Then gladly turning, ſought his ancient place, And ſpent a life of piety and peace.

AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. [By Mr. GRAY.]

Gray's Elegy.

AN ELEGY. WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds ſlowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkneſs and to me. Now fades the glimmering landſcape on the ſight, And all the air a ſolemn ſtillneſs holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And drowſy tinklings lull the diſtant folds: Save that, from yonder ivy mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of ſuch, as, wand'ring near her ſecret bow'r, Moleſt her ancient, ſolitary reign. Beneath thoſe rugged elms, that yew tree's ſhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet ſleep. The breezy call of incenſe breathing morn, The ſwallow, twitt'ring from the ſtraw built ſhed, The cock's ſhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more ſhall rouſe them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth ſhall burn, Or buſy houſewife ply her evening care: Nor children run to liſp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiſs to ſhare. Oft did the harveſt to their ſickle yield; Their furrow oft the ſtubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their teams a field! How bow'd the woods beneath their ſturdy ſtroke! Let not ambition mock their uſeful toil, Their homely joys, and deſtiny obſcure; Nor grandeur hear with a diſdainful ſmile The ſhort and ſimple annals of the poor. The boaſt of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike, th' inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to theſe the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raiſe, Where thro' the long drawn aiſle and fretted vault The pealing anthem ſwells the note of praiſe. Can ſtoried urn, or animated buſt, Back to its manſion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the ſilent duſt, Or flatt'ry ſooth the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected ſpot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celeſtial fire: Hands that the rod of empire might have ſway'd, Or wak'd to ecſtacy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the ſpoils of Time, did ne'er unrol; Chill penury repreſs'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the ſoul. Full many a gem, of pureſt ray ſerene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 〈1 page missing〉 Their lot forbade: Nor circumſcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through ſlaughter to a throne, And ſhut the gates of mercy on mankind: The ſtruggling pangs of conſcious truth to hide, To quench the bluſhes of ingenuous ſhame, Or heap the ſhrine of luxury and pride With incenſe kindled at the muſes' flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ſtrife Their ſober wiſhes never learn'd to ſtray; Along the cool ſequeſter'd vale of life They kept the noiſeleſs tenor of their way. Yet ev'n theſe bones from inſult to protect, Some frail memorial ſtill erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and ſhapeleſs ſculpture deck'd, Implores the paſſing tribute of a ſigh. Their name, their years, ſpelt by th' unletter'd muſe, The place of fame and elegy ſupply: And many a holy text around ſhe ſtrews, That teach the ruſtick moraliſt to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulneſs a prey, This pleaſing anxious being e'er reſign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor caſt one longing, ling'ring look behind? On ſome fond breaſt the parting ſoul relies, Some pious drops the cloſing eye requires: Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries; Ev'n in our aſhes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Doſt in theſe lines their artleſs tale relate; If, chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred ſpirit ſhall inquire thy fate. Haply ſome hoary headed ſwain may ſay, "Oft have we ſeen him, at the peep of dawn, Bruſhing, with haſty ſteps, the dews away, To meet the ſun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantaſtick roots ſo high, His liſtleſs length at noon tide would he ſtretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. Hard by yon wood, now ſmiling, as in ſcorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or croſs'd in hopeleſs love. One morn I miſs'd him on the 'cuſtom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree: Another came; nor yet beſide the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he. The next, with dirges due, in ſad array, Slow thro' the church yard path we ſaw him borne: Approach and read, for thou canſt read the lay Grav'd on the ſtone beneath yon aged thorn."
EPITAPH. Here reſts his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his ſoul ſincere; Heav'n did a recompenſe as largely ſend: He gave to Mis'ry all he had—a tear; He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wiſh'd) a friend. No farther ſeek his merits to diſcloſe, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repoſe) The boſom of his father and his God.

THE TRAVELLER: OR, A PROSPECT of SOCIETY. [By Dr. GOLDSMITH.]

To Men of other minds my fancy flies, Emboſom'd in the deep where Holland lies.

THE TRAVELLER: OR, A PROSPECT of SOCIETY. REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, ſlow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wand'ring Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Againſt the houſeleſs ſtranger ſhuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forſaken lies, A weary waſte expanding to the ſkies; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to ſee, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns with ceaſeleſs pain, And drags, at each remove, a lengthning chain. Eternal bleſſings crown my earlieſt friend, And round his dwelling guardian ſaints attend; Bleſt be that ſpot where cheerful gueſts retire, To pauſe from toil, and trim their evening fire; Bleſt that abode where want and pain repair, And ev'ry ſtranger finds a ready chair: Bleſt be thoſe feaſts, with ſimple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jeſts, or pranks that never fail, Or ſigh with pity at ſome mournful tale; Or preſs the baſhful ſtranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good! But me, not deſtin'd ſuch delights to ſhare, My prime of life in wand'ring ſpent, and care: Impell'd, with ſteps unceaſing, to purſue Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view; That, like the circle bounding earth and ſkies, Allures from far, yet as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverſe realms alone, And find no ſpot of all the world my own. Ev'n now, where Alpine ſolitudes aſcend, I ſit me down a penſive hour to ſpend: And plac'd on high, above the ſtorm's career, Look downward where an hundred realms appear; Lakes, foreſts, cities, plains, extending wide, The pomp of kings, the ſhepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidſt the ſtore ſhould thankleſs pride repine? Say, Should the philoſophick mind diſdain That good which makes each humbler boſom vain? Let ſchool taught pride diſſemble all it can Theſe little things are great to little man; And wiſer he, whoſe ſympathetick mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and ſplendour crown'd; Ye fields, where ſummer ſpreads profuſion round; Ye lakes, whoſe veſſels catch the buſy gale; Ye bending ſwains, that dreſs the flow'ry vale, For me your tributary ſtores combine: Creation's heir! the world, the world is mine! As ſome lone miſer, viſiting his ſtore, Bends at his treaſure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his riſing raptures fill, Yet ſtill he ſighs, for hoards are wanting ſtill: Thus to my breaſt alternate paſſions riſe, Pleas'd with each good that heav'n to man ſupplies; Yet oft a ſigh prevails, and ſorrows fall To ſee the hoard of human bliſs ſo ſmall; And oft I wiſh, amidſt the ſcene, to find Some ſpot to real happineſs conſign'd; Where my worn ſoul, each wand'ring hope at reſt, May gather bliſs to ſee my fellows bleſt. But where to find that happieſt ſpot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The ſhudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happieſt ſpot his own; Extols the treaſures of his ſtormy ſeas, And his long nights of revelry and eaſe: The naked negro, panting at the line, Boaſts of his golden ſands and palmy wine; Baſks in the glare, or ſtems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boaſt, where'er we roam; His firſt, beſt country ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And eſtimate the bleſſings which they ſhare, Tho' patriots flatter, ſtill ſhall wiſdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind; As diff'rent good, by art or nature giv'n, To diff'rent nations, makes their bleſſings even. Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliſs at labour's earneſt call; With food as well the peaſant is ſuppli'd On Idra's cliffs as Arno's ſhelvy ſide; And tho' the rocky creſted ſummits frown, Theſe rocks by cuſtom turn to beds of down. From art more various are the bleſſings ſent; Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. Yet theſe each other's power ſo ſtrong conteſt, That either ſeems deſtructive of the reſt. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails; And honour ſinks where commerce long prevails. Hence ev'ry ſtate, to one lov'd bleſſing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone. Each to the fav'rite happineſs attends, And ſpurns the plan that aims at other ends; Till carried to exceſs in each domain, This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try theſe truths with cloſer eyes, And trace them thro' the proſpect as it lies: Here, for a while, my proper cares reſign'd, Here let me ſit in ſorrow for mankind; Like you neglected ſhrub at random caſt, That ſhades the ſteep, and ſighs at ev'ry blaſt. Far to the right, where Appennine aſcends, Bright as the ſummer, Italy extends Its uplands ſloping deck the mountain's ſide, Woods over woods in gay theatrick pride; While oft ſome temple's mould'ring tops between, With venerable grandeur mark the ſcene. Could Nature's bounty ſatisfy the breaſt, The ſons of Italy were ſurely bleſt. Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly riſe, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whoſe bright ſucceſſion decks the varied year; Whatever ſweets ſalute the northern ſky With vernal leaves, that bloſſom but to die— Theſe, here diſporting, own the kindred ſoil, Nor aſk luxuriance from the planter's toil; While ſea born gales their gelid wings expand, To winnow fragrance round the ſmiling land. But ſmall the bliſs that ſenſe alone beſtows; And ſenſual bliſs is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man ſeems the only growth that dwindles here. Contraſted faults thro' all his manners reign: Tho' poor, luxurious; tho' ſubmiſſive, vain; Tho' grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; And e'en in penance planning ſins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, When commerce proudly flouriſh'd thro' the ſtate: At her command the palace learn'd to riſe, Again the long fall'n column ſought the ſkies; The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm; The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form; Till, more unſteady than the ſouthern gale, Commerce on other ſhores diſplay'd her ſail; While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a ſlave: And late the nation found, with fruitleſs ſkill, Its former ſtrength was but plethorick ill. Yet ſtill the loſs of wealth is here ſuppli'd By arts, the ſplendid wrecks of former pride; From theſe the feeble heart and long fall'n mind An eaſy compenſation ſeem to find. Here may be ſeen, in bloodleſs pomp array'd The paſteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Proceſſions form'd for piety and love, A miſtreſs or a ſaint in ev'ry grove. By ſports like theſe are all their cares beguil'd; The ſports of children ſatisfy the child: Each nobler aim, repreſt by long control, Now ſinks at laſt, or feebly mans the ſoul; While low delights, ſucceeding faſt behind, In happier meanneſs occupy the mind: As in thoſe domes, where Caeſars once bore ſway, Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, There in the ruin, heedleſs of the dead, The ſhelter ſeeking peaſant builds his ſhed; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a ſmile. My ſoul, turn from them—turn we to ſurvey Where rougher climes a nobler race diſplay; Where the bleak Swiſs their ſtormy manſions tread, And force a churliſh ſoil for ſcanty bread: No product here the barren hills afford, But man and ſteel, the ſoldier and his ſword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly ſues the mountain's breaſt, But meteors glare, and ſtormy glooms inveſt. Yet ſtill, e'en here Content can ſpread a charm, Redreſs the clime, and all its rage diſarm. Tho' poor the peaſant's hut, his feaſt tho' ſmall, He ſees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To ſhame the meanneſs of his humble ſhed; No coſtly lord the ſumptuous banquet deal, To make him lothe his vegetable meal; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wiſh contracting, fits him to the ſoil. Cheerful at morn he wakes from ſhort repoſe, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughſhare to the ſteep; Or ſeeks the den where ſnow tracks mark the way, And drags the ſtruggling ſavage into day, At night returning, ev'ry labour ſped, He ſits him down the monarch of a ſhed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round ſurveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boaſtful of her hoard, Diſplays her cleanly platter on the board: And haply too ſome pilgrim thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot paſſion on his heart; And e'en thoſe ills that round his manſion riſe, Enhance the bliſs his ſcanty fund ſupplies. Dear is that ſhed to which his ſoul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the ſtorms; And as a child, when ſcaring ſounds moleſt, Clings cloſe and cloſer to the mother's breaſt, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren ſtates aſſign'd; Their wants but few, their wiſhes all confin'd. Yet let them only ſhare the praiſes due; If few their wants, their pleaſures are but few: For ev'ry want that ſtimulates the breaſt, Becomes a ſource of pleaſure when redreſt. When from ſuch lands each pleaſing ſcience flies, That firſt excites deſire, and then ſupplies; Unknown to them, when ſenſual pleaſures cloy, To fill the languid pauſe with finer joy; Unknown thoſe powers that raiſe the ſoul to flame, Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate thro' the frame. Their level life is but a mould'ring ſire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by ſtrong deſire; Unfit for raptures; or, if raptures cheer On ſome high feſtival of once a year, In wild exceſs the vulgar breaſt takes ſire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliſs expire. But not their joys alone thus coarſely flow; Their morals, like their pleaſures, are but low: For, as refinement ſtops, from ſire to ſon, Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run; And love's and friendſhip's finely pointed dart Falls blunted from each indurated heart. Some ſterner virtues o'er the mountain's breaſt May ſit, like falcons cowering on the neſt; But all the gentler morals, ſuch as play Thro' life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way, Theſe far diſpers'd, on timorous pinions fly, To ſport and flutter in a kinder ſky. To kinder ſkies, where gentler manners reign, I turn —and France diſplays her bright domain. Gay ſprightly land of mirth and ſocial eaſe, Pleas'd with thyſelf, whom all the world can pleaſe, How often have I led thy ſportive choir With tuneleſs pipe, beſide the murm'ring Loire! Where ſhading elms along the margin grew, And, freſhen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew; And haply, tho' my harſh touch, falt'ring ſtill, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's ſkill, Yet would the village praiſe my wond'rous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon tide hour! Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze; And the gay grandſire, ſkill'd in geſtick lore, Has friſk'd beneath the burden of threeſcore. So bleſt a life theſe thoughtleſs realms diſplay, Thus idly buſy rolls their world away: Theirs are thoſe arts that mind to mind endear; For honour forms the ſocial temper here. Honour, that praiſe which real merit gains, Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here paſſes current; paid from hand to hand, It ſhifts in ſplendid traffick round the land: From courts to camps, to cottages it ſtrays, And all are taught an avarice of praiſe: They pleaſe, are pleas'd, they give to get eſteem, Till, ſeeming bleſt, they grow to what they ſeem. But while this ſofter art their bliſs ſupplies, It gives their follies alſo room to riſe, For praiſe too dearly lov'd, or warmly ſought, Enfeebles all internal ſtrength of thought; And the weak ſoul, within itſelf unbleſt, Leans for all pleaſure on another's breaſt. Hence oſtentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praiſe which fools impart: Here vanity aſſumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frize with copper lace; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. To boaſt one ſplendid banquet once a year; The mind ſtill turns where ſhifting faſhion draws, Nor weighs the ſolid worth of ſelf applauſe. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Emboſom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient ſons before me ſtand, Where the broad ocean leans againſt the land; And, ſedulous to ſtop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward methinks, and diligently ſlow, The firm connected bulwark ſeems to grow; Spreads its long arms amidſt the wat'ry roar, Scoops out an empire, and uſurps the ſhore, While the pent ocean, riſing o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him ſmile; The ſlow canal, the yellow bloſſom'd vale, The willow tufted bank, the gliding ſail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation, reſcued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave ſubjected ſoil Impels the native to repeated toil, Induſtrious habits in each boſom reign, And induſtry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that ſprings, With all thoſe ills ſuperfluous treaſure brings, Are here diſplay'd. Their much lov'd wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But view them cloſer, craft and fraud appear; E'en Liberty itſelf is barter'd here; At gold's ſuperiour charms all freedom flies; The needy ſell it, and the rich man buys; A land of tyrants, and a den of ſlaves! Here wretches ſeek diſhonourable graves, And calmly bent, to ſervitude conform; Dull as their lakes that ſlumber in the ſtorm. Heavens! how unlike their Belgick ſires of old! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breaſt, and freedom on each brow; How much unlike the ſons of Britain now! Fir'd at the ſound, my Genius ſpreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the weſtern ſpring; Where lawns extend that ſcorn Arcadian pride, And brighter ſtreams than fam'd Hydaſpes glide: There all around the gentleſt breezes ſtray; There gentle muſick melts on ev'ry ſpray; Creation's mildeſt charms are there combin'd; Extremes are only in the maſter's mind! Stern o'er each boſom Reaſon holds her ſtate, With daring aims irregularly great: Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I ſee the lords of human kind paſs by; Intent on high deſigns, a thoughtful band, By forms unfaſhion'd, freſh from Nature's hand; Fierce in their native hardineſs of ſoul, True to imagin'd right, above control, While e'en the peaſant boaſts theſe RIGHTS to ſcan, And learns to venerate himſelf as MAN. Thine, Freedom, thine the bleſſings pictur'd here; Thine are thoſe charms that dazzle and endear; Too bleſt indeed were ſuch without alloy, But foſter'd e'en by Freedom ills annoy: That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the ſocial tie; The ſelf dependent lordlings ſtand alone: All claims that bind and ſweeten life unknown; Here, by the bonds of Nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. Ferments ariſe, impriſon'd factions roar, Repreſs'd Ambition ſtruggles round her ſhore, Till, over wrought, the general ſyſtem feels Its motions ſtop, or phrenſy fire the wheels. Nor this the worſt. As Nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to ſway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather ſtrength and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to theſe alone, And talent ſinks, and merit weeps unknown; Till time may come, when, ſtript of all her charms, The land of ſcholars and the nurſe of arms, Where noble ſtems tranſmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, One ſink of level avarice ſhall lie, And ſcholars, ſoldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I ſtate, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great; Ye pow'rs of truth, that bid my ſoul aſpire, Far from my boſom drive the low deſire! And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry ſteel; Thou tranſitory flower, alike undone By proud Contempt, or Favour's foſt'ring ſun, Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repreſs them to ſecure: For juſt experience tells, in ev'ry ſoil, That thoſe who think muſt govern thoſe who toil; And all that Freedom's higheſt aims can reach, Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, ſhould one order diſproportion'd grow, Its double weight muſt ruin all below. O then, how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom when a part aſpires! Calm is my ſoul, nor apt to riſe in arms, Except when faſt approaching danger warms: But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to ſtretch their own; When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themſelves are free; Each wanton judge new penal ſtatutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law; The wealth of climes, where ſavage nations roam, Pillag'd from ſlaves, to purchaſe ſlaves at home; Fear, pity, juſtice, indignation ſtart, Tear off reſerve, and bear my ſwelling heart; Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curſe with me that baleful hour, When firſt Ambition ſtruck at regal power; And, thus polluting honour in its ſource, Gave wealth to ſway the mind with double force. Have we not ſeen, round Britain's peopled ſhore, Her uſeful ſons exchang'd for uſeleſs ore? Seen all her triumphs but deſtruction haſte, Like flaring tapers, bright'ning as they waſte; Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead ſtern Depopulation in her train, And over fields, where ſcatter'd hamlets roſe, In barren, ſolitary pomp repoſe? Have we not ſeen, at Pleaſure's lordly call, The ſmiling long frequented village fall? Beheld the duteous ſon, the ſire decay'd, The modeſt matron, and the bluſhing maid, Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverſe climes beyond the weſtern main; Where wild Oſwego ſpreads her ſwamps around, And Niagara ſtuns with thund'ring ſound! E'en now, perhaps, as there ſome pilgrim ſtrays Thro' tangled foreſts, and thro' dang'rous ways; Where beaſts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim; There, while above the giddy tempeſt flies, And all around diſtreſsful yells ariſe, The penſive exile, bending with his woe, To ſtop too fearful, and too faint to go, Caſts a long look where England's glories ſhine, And bids his boſom ſympathize with mine. Vain, very vain my weary ſearch, to find That bliſs which only centres in the mind! Why have I ſtray'd from pleaſure and repoſe, To ſeek a good each government beſtows? In ev'ry government tho' terrors reign, Tho' tyrant kings or tyrant laws reſtrain, How ſmall, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cauſe or cure! Still to ourſelves in ev'ry place conſign'd, Our own felicity we make or find: With ſecret courſe, which no loud ſtorms annoy, Glides the ſmooth current of domeſtick joy. The lifted ax, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of ſteel, To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reaſon, faith, and conſcience, all our own.

DEATH. A POEM. [By Dr. PORTEUS, Biſhop of London.]

Friend to the Wretch whom every Friend forſakes.

DEATH. A POEM. FRIEND to the wretch whom every friend forſakes, I woo thee, Death! In fancy's fairy paths Let the gay ſongſter rove, and gently trill The ſtrain of empty joy. Life and its joys I leave to thoſe that prize them. At this hour, This ſolemn hour, when ſilence rules the world, And wearied nature makes a gen'ral pauſe! Wrapt in Night's ſable robe, thro' cloyſters drear, And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng Of meagre phantoms ſhooting croſs my path With ſilent glance, I ſeek the ſhadowy vale Of Death. Deep in a murky cave's receſs, Lav'd by Oblivion's liſtleſs ſtream, and fenc'd By ſhelving rocks, and intermingled horrors Of yew and cypreſs ſhade, from all intruſion Of buſy noontide beam, the Monarch ſits In unſubſtantial majeſty enthorn'd. At his right hand, neareſt himſelf in place And frightfulneſs of form, his parent Sin, With fatal induſtry and cruel care, Buſies herſelf in pointing all his ſtings, And tipping every ſhaft with venom drawn From her infernal ſtore: around him, rang'd In terrible array, and mixture ſtrange Of uncouth ſhapes, ſtand his dread miniſters. Foremoſt Old Age, his natural ally And firmeſt friend: next him diſeaſes thick, A motly train; Fever, with cheek of fire; Conſumption wan; Palſy, half warm with life, And half a clay clod lump; joint tort'ring Gout, And ever gnawing Rheum; Convulſion wild; Swoln Dropſy; panting Aſthma; Appoplex Full gorg'd. There too the Peſtilence that walks In darkneſs, and the Sickneſs that deſtroys At broad noonday. Theſe, and a thouſand more, Horrid to tell, attentive wait; and when, By Heaven's command, Death waves his ebon wand, Sudden ruſh forth to execute his purpoſe, And ſcatter deſolation o'er the earth. Ill fated man, for whom ſuch various forms Of mis'ry wait, and mark their future prey! Ah! why, allrighteous Father, didſt thou make This creature Man? Why wake th' inconſcious duſt To life and wretchedneſs? O better far Still had he ſlept in uncreated night, If this the lot of being! Was it for this Thy breath divine kindled within his breaſt The vital flame? For this was thy fair image Stampt on his ſoul in godlike lineaments? For this dominion giv'n him abſolute O'er all thy works, only that he might reign Supreme in woe? From the bleſt ſource of Good Could Pain and Death proceed? Could ſuch foul ills Fall from fair Mercy's hands? Far be the thought, The impious thought! God never made a creature But what was good. He made a living Soul; The wretched Mortal was the work of Man. Forth from his Maker's hands he ſprung to life, Freſh with immortal bloom; no pain he knew, No fear of change, no check to his deſires, Save one command: that one command, which ſtood 'Twixt him and Death, the teſt of his obedience, Urg'd on by wanton curioſity, He broke. There in one moment was undone The faireſt of God's works. The ſame raſh hand, That pluck'd in evil hour the fatal fruit, Unbarr'd the gates of Hell, and let looſe Sin And Death, and all the family of Pain, To prey upon mankind. Young Nature ſaw The monſtrous crew, and ſhook thro' all her frame. Then fled her newborn luſtre, then began Heaven's cheerful face to low'r; then vapours chok'd The troubled air, and form'd a veil of clouds To hide the willing Sun. The earth, convuls'd With painful throes, threw forth a briſtly crop Of thorns and briars! and inſect, bird, and beaſt, That wont before with admiration fond To gaze at Man, and fearleſs crowd around him, Now fled before his face, ſhunning in in haſte Th' infection of his miſery. He alone, Who juſtly might, th' offended Lord of Man, Turn'd not away his face; he, full of pity, Forſook not in this uttermoſt diſtreſs His beſt lov'd work. That comfort ſtill remain'd, That beſt, that greateſt comfort in affliction, The countenance of God; and thro' the gloom Shot forth ſome kindly gleams, to cheer and warm Th' offender's ſinking ſoul. Hope, ſent from Heav'n, Uprais'd his drooping head, and ſhew'd afar A happier ſcene of things; the promis'd Seed Trampling upon the Serpent's humbled creſt, Death of his ſting diſarm'd; and the dark grave, Made pervious to the realms of endleſs day, No more the limit but the gate of life. Cheer'd with the view, Man went to till the ground, From whence he roſe; ſentenc'd indeed to toil As to a puniſhment, yet, even in wrath, So merciful is Heav'n, this toil became The ſolace of his woes, the ſweet employ Of many a livelong hour, and ſureſt guard Againſt Diſeaſe and Death. Death tho' denounc'd, Was yet a diſtant ill, by feeble arm Of Age, his ſole ſupport, led ſlowly on. Not then, as ſince, the ſhort liv'd ſon's of men Flock'd to his realms in countleſs multitudes; Scarce in the courſe of twice five hundred years One ſolitary ghoſt went ſhiv'ring down To his unpeopled ſhore. In ſober ſtate, Through the ſequeſter'd vale of rural life, The venerable Patriarch guileleſs held The tenor of his way; Labour prepar'd His ſimple fare, and Temp'rance rul'd his board. Tir'd with his daily toil, at early eve He ſunk to ſudden reſt; gentle and pure As breath of evening zephyr, and as ſweet, Were all his ſlumbers; with the Sun he roſe, Alert and vigorous as he, to run His deſtin'd courſe.—Thus nerv'd with giant ſtrength, He ſtemm'd the tide of time, and ſtood the ſhock Of ages rolling harmleſs o'er his head. At life's meridian point arriv'd, he ſtood, And, looking round, ſaw all the valley fill'd With nations from his loins; full well content To leave his race thus ſcatter'd o'er the earth, Along the gentle ſlope of life's decline He bent his gradual way, till full of years, He dropp'd like mellow fruit into his grave. Such in the infancy of time was Man; So calm was life, ſo impotent was Death! O had he but preſerv'd theſe few remains, The ſhatter'd fragments of loſt happineſs, Snatch'd by the hand of Heav'n from the ſad wreck Of innocence primeval, ſtill had he liv'd In ruin great; though fall'n, yet not forlorn; Though mortal, yet not every where beſet With Death in every ſhape! But he, impatient To be completely wretched, haſtes to fill up The meaſure of his woes.—'Twas Man himſelf Brought Death into the world; and Man himſelf Gave keenneſs to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiplied deſtruction on mankind. Firſt Envy, eldeſt born of Hell, embrued Her hands in blood, and taught the Sons of Men To make a death which Nature never made, And God abhorr'd; with violence rude to break The thread of life ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition ſaw, and ſoon improv'd The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough By ſubtle fraud to ſnatch a ſingle life: Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell To ſate the luſt of power: More horrid ſtill, The fouleſt ſtain and ſcandal of our nature Became its boaſt. One Murder made a Villain, Millions a Hero. Princes were priviledg'd To kill; and numbers ſanctified the crime. Ah! Why will Kings forget that they are Men? And Men that they are brethren? Why delight In human ſacrifice? Why burſt the ties Of Nature, that ſhould knit their ſouls together In one ſoft bond of amity and love? Yet ſtill they breathe deſtruction, ſtill go on In humanly ingenious to find out New pains for life, new terrors for the grave, Artificers of Death! Still Monarchs dream Of univerſal empire growing up From univerſal ruin. Blaſt the deſign, Great God of Hoſts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's ſhrine! Yet ſay, ſhould Tyrants learn at laſt to feel, And the loud din of battle ceaſe to bray; Should dove eyed Peace o'er all the earth extend Her olive branch, and give the world repoſe, Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and ſtrength, and youth, Defy his power? Has he no arts in ſtore, No other ſhafts, ſave thoſe of war? Alas! Ev'n in the ſmile of Peace, that ſmile which ſheds A heav'nly ſunſhine o'er the ſoul, there baſks That ſerpent Luxury. War its thouſands ſlays, Peace its ten thouſands. In th' embattled plain Tho' Death exults, and claps his raven wings, Yet reigns he not ev'n there ſo abſolute, So mercileſs, as in yon frantick ſcenes Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth; Where in th' intoxicating draught conceal'd, Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawleſs Love, He ſnares the ſimple youth, who, nought ſuſpecting, Means to be bleſt—but finds himſelf undone. Down the ſmooth ſtream of life the ſtripling darts, Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal ſky, Hope ſwells his ſails, and paſſion ſteers his courſe. Safe glides his little bark along the ſhore Where Virtue takes her ſtand; but if too far He launches forth beyond Diſcretion's mark, Sudden the tempeſt ſcowls, the ſurges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. O ſad but ſure miſchance! O happier far To lie like gallant Howe 'midſt Indian wilds A breathleſs corſe, cut off by ſavage hands In earlieſt prime, a generous ſacrifice To Freedom's holy cauſe, than ſo to fall, Torn immature from life's meridian joys, A prey to Vice, Intemp'rance, and Diſeaſe. Yet die ev'n thus, thus rather periſh ſtill, Ye Sons of Pleaſure, by th' Almighty ſtrick'n, Than ever dare, though oft, alas! ye dare, To lift againſt yourſelves the murd'rous ſteel, To wreſt from God's own hand the ſword of Juſtice, And be your own avengers! Hold, raſh man, Though with anticipating ſpeed thou'ſt rang'd Through every region of delight, nor left One joy to gild the evening of thy days; Though life ſeem one uncomfortable void, Guilt at thy heels, before thy face Deſpair; Yet gay this ſcene, and light this load of woe, Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think, O think, And ere thou plunge into the vaſt abyſs, Pauſe on the verge a while, look down and ſee Thy future manſion. Why that ſtart of horror? From thy ſlack hand why drops th' uplifted ſteel? Didſt thou not think ſuch vengeance muſt await The wretch, that, with his crimes all freſh about him, Ruſhes irreverent, unprepar'd, uncall'd, Into his Maker's preſence, throwing back With inſolent diſdain his choiceſt gift? Live then, while Heav'n in pity lends thee life, And think it all too ſhort to waſh away, By penitential tears and deep contrition, The ſcarlet of thy crimes. So ſhalt thou find Reſt to thy ſoul; ſo unappall'd ſhall meet Death when he comes; not wantonly invite His ling'ring ſtroke. Be it thy ſole concern With innocence to live, with patience wait Th' appointed hour; too ſoon that hour will come, Tho' Nature run her courſe. But Nature's God, If need require, by thouſand various ways, Without thy aid, can ſhorten that ſhort ſpan, And quench the lamp of life. Oh, when he comes, Rous'd by the cry of wickedneſs extreme To Heav'n aſcending from ſome guilty land, Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes array'd In all the terrors of almighty wrath, Forth from his boſom plucks his ling'ring arm, And on the miſcreants pours deſtruction down, Who can abide his coming? Who can bear His whole diſpleaſure? In no common form Death then appears, but ſtarting into ſize Enormous, meaſures with gigantick ſtride Th' aſtoniſh'd earth, and from his looks throws round Unutterable horror and diſmay. All Nature lends her aid. Each element Arms in his cauſe. Ope fly the doors of heav'n; The fountains of the deep their barriers break; Above, below, the rival torrents pour, And drown creation; or in floods of fire Deſcends a livid cataract, and conſumes An impious race. Sometimes, when all ſeems peace, Wakes the grim whirlwind, and with rude embrace Sweeps nations to their grave, or in the deep Whelms the proud wooden world; full many a youth Floats on his wat'ry bier, or lies unwept On ſome ſad deſert ſhore! At dead of night, In ſullen ſilence ſtalks forth Peſtilence: Contagion, cloſe behind, taints all her ſteps With pois'nous dew; no ſmiting hand is ſeen, No ſound is heard but ſoon her ſecret path Is mark'd with deſolation; heaps on heaps Promiſcuous drop. No friend, no refuge, near; All, all is falſe and treacherous around; All that they touch, or taſte, or breathe, is Death. But ah! what means that ruinous roar? Why fail Theſe tott'ring feet? Earth to its center feels The Godhead's power, and trembling at his touch Through all its pillars, and in ev'ry pore, Hurls to the ground, with one convulſive heave, Precipitating domes, and towns, and tow'rs, The work of ages. Cruſh'd beneath the weight Of gen'ral devaſtation, millions find One common grave; not ev'n a widow left To wail her ſons: the houſe, that ſhould protect, Entombs its maſter; and the faithleſs plain, If there he flies for help, with ſudden yawn Starts from beneath him. Shield me, gracious Heav'n, O ſnatch me from deſtruction! If this globe, This ſolid globe, which thine own hand hath made So firm and ſure, if this my ſteps betray; If my own mother Earth, from whence I ſprung, Riſe up with rage unnatural to devour Her wretched offspring, Whither ſhall I fly? Where look for ſuccour? Where, but up to thee, Almighty Father? Save, O ſave, thy ſuppliant From horrors ſuch as theſe! At thy good time Let Death approach; I reck not.— Let him but come In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd, Too much for man to bear! O rather lend Thy kindly aid to mitigate his ſtroke; And at that hour, when all aghaſt I ſtand A trembling candidate for thy compaſſion, On this world's brink, and look into the next; When my ſoul, ſtarting from the dark unknown, Caſts back a wiſhful look, and fondly clings To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd From this fair ſcene, from all her cuſtom'd joys, And all the lovely relatives of life; Then ſhed thy comforts o'er me, then put on The gentleſt of thy looks. Let no dark crimes, In all their hideous forms then ſtarting up, Plant themſelves round my couch in grim array, And ſtab my bleeding heart with two-edg'd torture, Senſe of paſt guilt, and dread of future woe. Far be the ghaſtly crew! And in their ſtead Let cheerful Memory, from her pureſt cells, Lead forth a goodly train of Virtues fair, Cheriſh'd in earlieſt youth, now paying back With tenfold uſury the pious care, And pouring o'er my wounds the heav'nly balm Of conſcious innocence. But chiefly Thou, Whom ſoft eyed Pity once led down from Heav'n To bleed for man, to teach him how to live, And, oh! ſtill harder leſſon! how to die; Diſdain not Thou to ſmooth the reſtleſs bed Of ſickneſs and of pain. Forgive the tear That feeble Nature drops, calm all her fears, Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith, Till my rapt ſoul, anticipating Heav'n, Burſts from the thraldom of incumb'ring clay, And on the wing of ecſtaſy upborne, Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE. [By Dr. GOLDSMITH.]

Publliſhed by Isaiah Thomas 1793

Sweet Auburn! lovlieſt Village of the plain.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE. SWEET Auburn! lovlieſt village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring ſwain, Where ſmiling ſpring its earlieſt viſit paid, And parting ſummer's ling'ring blooms delay'd; Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and eaſe, Seats of my youth, when ev'ry ſport could pleaſe, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happineſs endear'd each ſcene! How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm, The ſhelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the buſy mill, The decent church, that topp'd the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn buſh, with ſeats beneath the ſhade, For talking age and whiſp'ring lovers made! How often have I bleſs'd the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train from labour free, Led up their ſports beneath the ſpreading tree, While many a paſtime circle in the ſhade, The young contending as the old ſurvey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And ſleights of art and ſeats of ſtrength went round! And ſtill as each repeated pleaſure tir'd, Succeeding ſports the mirthful band inſpir'd; The dancing pair that ſimply ſought renown, By holding out to tire each other down; The ſwain miſtruſtleſs of his ſmutted face, While ſecret laughter titter'd round the place; The baſhful virgin's ſide long looks of love, The matron's glance that would thoſe looks reprove— Theſe were thy charms, ſweet village! ſports like theſe, With ſweet ſucceſſion, taught e'en toil to pleaſe; Theſe round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence ſhed; Theſe were thy charms—But all theſe charms are fled. Sweet ſmiling village, lovelieſt of the lawn, Thy ſports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidſt thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is ſeen, And deſolation ſaddens all thy green: One only maſter graſps the whole domain, And half a tillage ſtints thy ſmiling plain: No more thy glaſſy brook reflects the day. But, chok'd with ſedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a ſolitary gueſt, The hollow ſounding bittern guards its neſt; Amidſt thy deſert walks the lapwing ſlies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bow'rs in ſhapeleſs ruin all, And the long graſs o'rtops the mouldring wall; And, trembling, ſhrinking from the ſpoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to haſt'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay: Princes and Lords may flouriſh, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made: But a bold peaſantry, their country's pride, When once deſtroy'd, can never be ſupply'd. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labour ſpread her wholeſome ſtore; Juſt gave what life requir'd, but gave no more: His beſt companions, innocence and health; And his beſt riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd: trade's unfeeling train Uſurp the land, and diſpoſſeſs the ſwain; Along the lawn, where ſcatter'd hamlets roſe, Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repoſe; And ev'ry want to luxury alli'd, And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride. Thoſe gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Thoſe calm deſires that aſk'd but little room, Thoſe healthful ſports that grac'd the peaceful ſcene, Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green; Theſe far departing, ſeek a kinder ſhore; And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn! parent of the bliſsful hour, Thy glades forlorn confeſs the tyrant's pow'r. Here, as I take my ſolitary rounds, Amidſt thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, And many a year elaps'd, return to view Where once the cottage ſtood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her buſy train, Swells at my breaſt, and turns the paſt to pain. In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs—and God has giv'n my ſhare— I ſtill had hopes, my lateſt hours to crown, Amidſt theſe humble bow'rs to lay me down; To huſband out life's taper at the cloſe, And keep the flame from waſting by repoſe: I ſtill had hopes, for pride attends us ſtill, Amidſt the ſwains to ſhew my book learn'd ſkill; Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I ſaw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns purſue, Pants to the place from whence at firſt he flew, I ſtill had hopes, my long vexations paſt, Here to return—and die at home at laſt. O bleſt retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreat from care, that never muſt be mine, How bleſt is he who crowns, in ſhades like theſe, A youth of labour with an age of eaſe! Who quits a world where ſtrong temptations try, And, ſince 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep! No ſurly porter ſtands in guilty ſtate, To ſpurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While reſignation gently ſlopes the way; And, all his proſpects bright'ning to the laſt, His heav'n commences ere the world be paſt! Sweet was the ſound, when oft, at ev'ning's cloſe, Up yonder hill the village murmur roſe; There as I paſs'd, with careleſs ſteps and ſlow, The mingling notes came ſoften'd from below; The ſwain reſponſive as the milk maid ſung, The ſober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noiſy geeſe that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children juſt let looſe from ſchool, The watch dog's voice that bay'd the whiſp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that ſpoke the vacant mind; Theſe all in ſweet confuſion ſought the ſhade, And fill'd each pauſe the nightingale had made. But now the ſounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No buſy ſteps the graſs grown footway tread, But all the bloomy fluſh of life is fled! All but yon widow'd ſolitary thing, That feebly bends beſide the plaſhy ſpring; She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread, To ſtrip the brook with mantling creſſes ſpread, To pick her wint'ry faggot from the thorn, To ſeek her nightly ſhed, and weep till morn; She only left, of all the harmleſs train, The ſad hiſtorian of the penſive plain. Near yonder copſe, where once the garden ſmil'd, And ſtill where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn ſhrubs the place diſcloſe, The village preacher's modeſt manſion roſe. A man he was to all the country dear, And paſſing rich, with forty pounds a year! Remote from towns, he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wiſh'd to change his place; Unſkilful he to fawn, or ſeek for pow'r, By doctrines faſhion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize; More bent to raiſe the wretched than to riſe. His houſe was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain. The long remember'd beggar was his gueſt, Whoſe beard, deſcending, ſwept his aged breaſt; The ruin'd ſpendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken ſoldier, kindly bade to ſtay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of ſorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and ſhew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his gueſts, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forget their vices in their woe; Careleſs their merits or their faults to ſcan; His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wrethched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's ſide; But in his duty prompt, at ev'ry call, He watch'd and wept—he pray'd— and felt for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt her new fledg'd offspring to the ſkies, He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beſide the bed, where parting life was laid, And ſorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns diſmay'd, The rev'rend champion ſtood. At his control Deſpair and anguiſh fled the ſtruggling ſoul; Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raiſe, And his laſt falt'ring accents whiſper'd praiſe. At church, with meek, and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double ſway, And fools who came to ſcoff, remain'd to pray. The ſervice paſt, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honeſt ruſtick ran; Ev'n children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to ſhare the good man's ſmile. His ready ſmile a parent's warmth expreſs'd; Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares diſtreſs'd; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n; But all his ſerious thoughts had reſt in heaven. As ſome tall cliff that liſts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ſtorm, Though round its breaſt the rolling clouds are ſpread, Eternal ſunſhine ſettles on its head. Beſide yon ſtraggling ſence that ſkirts the way, With bloſſom furze unprofitably gay, There in his noiſy manſion ſkill'd to to rule, The village maſter taught his little ſchool: A man ſevere he was, and ſtern to view; I knew him well, and ev'ry truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's diſaſters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes; for many a joke had he; Full well the buſy whiſper, circling round, Convey'd the diſmal tidings when he frown'd; Yet he was kind, or, if ſevere in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declar'd how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write and cypher too; Lands he could meaſure, times and tides preſage, And ev'n the ſtory ran that he could gauge: In arguing too, the parſon own'd his ſkill; For ev'n tho' vanquiſh'd, he could argue ſtill; While words of learned length, and thund'ring ſound, Amaz'd the gazing ruſticks rang'd around. And ſtill they gaz'd, and ſtill the wonder grew, That one ſmall head could carry all he knew. But paſt is all his fame. The very ſpot, Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, Where once the ſignpoſt caught the paſſing eye, Low lies that houſe where nut brown draughts inſpir'd, Where grey beard mirth and ſmiling toil retir'd; Where village ſtateſmen talk'd with looks profound; And news much older than their ale went round; Imagination fondly ſtoops to trace The parlour ſplendours of that feſtive place; The white waſh'd wall, the nicely ſanded floor; The varniſh'd clock that click'd behind the door; The cheſt, contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a cheſt of draw'rs by day; The pictures plac'd for ornament and uſe; The twelve good rules, the royal game of gooſe; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aſpen bows, and flowers, and ſennel gay; While broken tea cups wiſely kept for ſhow, Rang'd o'er the chimney, gliſten'd in a row. Vain tranſitory ſplendour! Could not all Reprieve the tott'ring manſion from its fall? Obſcure it ſinks, nor ſhall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peaſant ſhall repair To ſweet oblivion of his daily care; To more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad ſhall prevail; No more the ſmith his duſky brow ſhall clear, Relax his pond'rous ſtrength, and lean to hear; The hoſt himſelf no longer ſhall be found Careful to ſee the mantling bliſs go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be preſt, Shall kiſs the cup to paſs it to the reſt. Yes: let the rich deride, the proud diſdain, Theſe ſimple bleſſings of the lowly train: To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloſs of art; Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The ſoul adopts, and owns their firſtborn ſway; Lightly they frolick o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmoleſted, unconfin'd: But the long pomp, the midnight maſquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In theſe, ere triflers half their wiſh obtain, The toiling pleaſure ſickens into pain; And, ev'n while faſhion's brighteſt arts decoy. The heart, diſtruſting aſks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye ſtateſmen who ſurvey The rich man's joys increaſe, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits ſtand Between a ſplendid and a happy land. Proud ſwells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And ſhouting folly hails them from her ſhore; Hoards, ev'n beyond the miſer's wiſh, abound; And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name That leaves our uſeful product ſtill the ſame. Not ſo the loſs. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a ſpace that many poor ſupply'd; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds; Space for his horſes, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in ſilken ſloth, Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth; His ſeat, where ſolitary ſports are ſeen, Indignant ſpurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world ſupplies. While thus the land, adorn'd for pleaſure all, In barren ſplendour feebly waits the fall. As ſome fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to pleaſe while youth confirms her reign, Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dreſs ſupplies, Nor ſhares with art the triumph of her eyes; But when thoſe charms are paſt, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then ſhines forth, ſolicitous to bleſs, In all the glaring impotence of dreſs. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, In nature's ſimpleſt charms at firſt array'd, But verging to decline, its ſplendours riſe, Its viſtas ſtrike, its palaces ſurpriſe; While, ſcourg'd by famine from the ſmiling land, The mournful peaſant leads his humble band; And while he ſinks, without one arm to ſave, The country blooms—a garden and a grave. Where then, ah! where ſhall poverty reſide, To 'ſcape the preſſure of contiguous pride! If to ſome common's fenceleſs limits ſtray'd. He drives his flock to pick the ſcanty blade, Thoſe ſenceleſs 〈◊〉 the ſons of wealth divide, And ev'n the bare worn common is deny'd. If to the city ſped—What waits him there? To ſee profuſion that he muſt not ſhare; To ſee ten thouſand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To ſee each joy the ſons of pleaſure know, Extorted from his fellow creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artiſt plies the ſickly trade; Here, while the proud their long drawn pomps diſplay, There the black gibbet glooms beſide the way. The dome where Pleaſure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing ſquare, The rattling chariots claſh, the torches glare. Sure, ſcenes like theſe no troubles e'er annoy! Sure, theſe denote one univerſal joy! Are theſe thy ſerious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houſeleſs ſhiv'ring female lies! She once, perhaps, in village plenty bleſt, Has wept at tales of innocence diſtreſt; Her modeſt looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primroſe peeps beneath the thorn; Now loſt to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's doors ſhe lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and ſhrinking from the ſhow'r, With heavy heart deplores that luckleſs hour, When idly firſt, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown! Do thine, ſweet Auburn, thine, the lovelieſt train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Ev'n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they aſk a little bread! Ah, no. To diſtant climes, a dreary ſcene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Thro' torrid tracts with fainting ſteps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid ſhore; Thoſe blazing ſuns, that dart a downward ray, And fiercely ſhed intolerable day; Thoſe matted woods where birds forget to ſing, But ſilent bats in drowſy cluſters cling; Thoſe pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark ſcorpion gathers death around; Where at each ſtep the ſtranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful ſnake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapleſs prey, And ſavage men, more murd'rous ſtill than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravag'd landſcape with the ſkies. Far diff'rent theſe from ev'ry former ſcene, The cooling brook, the graſſy veſted green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only ſhelter'd thefts of harmleſs love. Good Heav'n! what ſorrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleaſure paſt, Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their laſt! And took a long farewel, and wiſh'd in vain For ſeats like theſe beyond the weſtern main, And ſhudd'ring ſtill to face the diſtant deep, Return'd and wept, and ſtill return'd to weep! The good old fire the firſt prepar'd to go To new found worlds, and wept for others woe, But for himſelf, in conſcious virtue brave, He only wiſh'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his hapleſs years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for her father's arms. With louder plaints the mother ſpoke her woes, And bleſs'd the cot where ev'ry pleaſure roſe; And kiſs'd her thoughtleſs babes with many a tear, And claſp'd them cloſe in ſorrow doubly dear; Whilſt her fond huſband ſtrove to lend relief, In all the ſilent manlineſs of grief. O Luxury! thou curſt by Heav'n's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like theſe for thee! How do thy potions, with inſidious joy, Diffuſe their pleaſures only to deſtroy! Kingdoms by thee, to ſickly greatneſs grown, Boaſt of a florid vigour not their own. At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow, A bloated maſs of rank unweildy woe; Till ſapp'd their ſtrength, and ev'ry part unſound, Down, down they ſink, and ſpread a ruin round. Ev'n now the devaſtation is begun, And half the bus'neſs of deſtruction done; Ev'n now, methinks, as pond'ring here I ſtand, I ſee the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch'ring veſſel ſpreads the ſail That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Paſs from the ſhore, and darken all the ſtrand. Contented toil, and hoſpitable care, And kind connubial tenderneſs are there; And piety, with wiſhes plac'd above, And ſteady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou ſweet Poetry, thou lovlieſt maid, Still firſt to fly where ſenſual joys invade; Unfit in theſe degen'rate times of ſhame To catch the heart, or ſtrike for honeſt fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd, My ſhame in crowds, my ſolitary pride; Thou, ſource of all my bliſs, and all my woe, Thou found it me poor at firſt, and keep'ſt me ſo; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou ſource of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well; Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd, On Torrio's cliffs, or Pambamarca's ſide, Whether where equinoxial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in ſnow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redreſs the rigours of th' inclement clime; Aid ſlighted truth with thy perſuaſive ſtrain; Teach erring man to ſpurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that ſtates of native ſtrength poſſeſt, Tho' very poor, may ſtill be very bleſt; That trade's proud empire haſtes to ſwift decay, As ocean ſweeps the labour'd mole away; While ſelf dependent pow'r can time defy, As rocks reſiſt the billows and the ſky.

HERMIT OF THE DALE. A BALLAD. [From the VICAR of WAKEFIELD.]

HERMIT OF THE DALE. A BLLLAD. "TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hoſpitable ray. For here forlorn and loſt I tread, With fainting ſteps and ſlow; Where wilds immeaſurably ſpread, Seem lengthening as I go." "Forbear, my ſon," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder phantom only flies To lure thee to thy doom. Here to the houſeleſs child of want, My door is open ſtill; And tho' my portion is but ſcant, I give it with good will. Then turn to night, and freely ſhare Whate'er my cell beſtows; My ruſhy couch and frugal fare, My bleſſing and repoſe. No flocks that range the valley free, To ſlaughter I condemn: Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them. But from the mountain's graſſy ſide, A guiltleſs feaſt I bring; A ſcrip with herbs and fruits ſupply'd, And water from the ſpring. Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; For earth born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heav'n deſcends, His gentle accents fell; The grateful ſtranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far ſhelter'd in a glade obſcure The modeſt manſion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And ſtrangers led aſtray. No ſtores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a maſter's care; The door juſt opening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmleſs pair. And now when worldly crowds retire To revels or to reſt, The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his penſive gueſt: And ſpread his vegetable ſtore, And gaily preſt, and ſmil'd; And ſkill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil'd. Around in ſympathetick mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups in the hearth; The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To ſoothe the ſtranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His riſing cares the hermit ſpy'd, With anſwering care oppreſt: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The ſorrows of thy breaſt? From better habitations ſpurn'd, Reluctant doſt thou rove: Or grieve for friendſhip unreturn'd, Or unregarded love? Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And thoſe who prize the paltry things, More trifling ſtill than they. And what is friendſhip—but a name, A charm that lulls to ſleep; A ſhade that follows wealth and fame, But leaves the wretch to weep? And love is ſtill an emptier ſound, The haughty fair one's jeſt: On earth unſeen, or only found To warm the turtle's neſt. For ſhame, fond youth, thy ſorrows huſh, And ſpurn the ſex," he ſaid: But while he ſpoke, a riſing bluſh The baſhful gueſt betray'd. He ſees unnumber'd beauties riſe, Expanding to the view; Like clouds that deck the morning ſkies, As bright, as tranſient too. Her looks, her lips, her panting breaſt, Alternate ſpread alarms: The lovely ſtranger ſtands confeſt A maid in all her charms. And, "Ah! forgive a ſtranger rude, A wretch forlorn," ſhe cry'd; "Whoſe feet unhallowed thus intrude Where heav'n and you reſide. But let a maid thy pity ſnare, Whom love has taught to ſtray; Who ſeeks for reſt, but finds deſpair Companion of her way. My father liv'd beſide the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine He had but only me. To win me, from his tender arms, Unnumber'd ſuitors came; Who prais'd me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign'd a flame. Each morn the gay fantaſtick crowd With richeſt proffers ſtrove: Among the reſt young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. In humble, ſimpleſt habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; A conſtant heart was all he had, But that was all to me. The bloſſom opening to the day; The dews of heav'n refin'd, Could nought of purity diſplay To emulate his mind. The dew, the bloſſom on the tree, With charms inconſtant ſhine; Their charms were his, but woe to me, Their conſtancy was mine. For ſtill I try'd each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And, while his paſſion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. 'Till quite dejected with my ſcorn, He left me to my pride; And ſought a ſolitude forlorn, In ſecret, where he dy'd. But mine the ſorrow, mine the fault, And well my life ſhall pay; I'll ſeek the ſolitude he ſought, And ſtretch me where he lay. And, there forlorn deſpairing hid, I'll lay me down and die: 'Twas ſo for me that Edwin did, And ſo for him will I." "Thou ſhalt not thus," the hermit cry'd, And claſp'd her to his breaſt: The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide; 'Twas Edwin's ſelf that preſt. "Turn Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to ſee Thy own, thy long loſt Edwin here, Reſtor'd to love and thee. Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care reſign: And ſhall we never, never part, O thou—my all that's mine. No, never, from this hour to part, We'll live and love ſo true; The ſigh that rends thy conſtant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too."

Born 29 May 1789

Publiſhed by Isaiah Thomas 1793.

FUTURITY. EXTRACTED FROM THE CELEBRATED DODD's THOUGHTS IN PRISON.

FUTURITY.

[Mr. Dodd was an eminent Miniſter of the Goſpel in England, but not taking that care of his worldly affairs which was neceſſary, he involved himſelf in debt, and to extricate himſelf therefrom, he committed a forgery, for which he was executed in June 1777. 30,000 perſons ſigned a petition to the King, to ſave his life; but it was ineffectual.

—DREAD GOD Of juſtice and of mercy! Wilt Thou too, In fearful Indignation on my ſoul, My anguiſh'd ſoul, the door of pity cloſe, And ſhut me from Thee ever?—Lo! in duſt, Humiliant, proſtrate, weeping 'fore thy throne— Before thy croſs, Oh dying friend of man, Friend of repentant ſinners, I confeſs, And mourn my deep tranſgreſſions; as the ſand Innumerous, as the glowing crimſon red: With every aggravation, every guilt Accumulate and burden'd! Againſt light, 'Gainſt love and cleareſt knowledge perpetrate! Stamp'd with Ingratitude's moſt odious ſtain; Ingratitude to THEE; whoſe favouring love Had bleſs'd me, had diſtinguiſh'd me with grace, With goodneſs far beyond my wiſh or worth! Ingratitude to man; whoſe partial ear Attended to my doctrine with delight; And from my zeal conſpicuous juſtly claim'd Conſpicuous example!—Lord, I ſink O'erwhelm'd with ſelf conviction, with diſmay, With anguiſh and confuſion paſt compare! And could I weep whole ſeas of briny tears In painful penitence; could I deplore From my heart's aching fountain, drop by drop, My crimes and follies; my deep grief and ſhame, For vile diſhonour on thy goſpel brought; For vile diſcredit to my order done; For deep offence againſt my country's laws; For deep offence to piety and man; A patriarchal age would be too ſhort To ſpeak my ſorrows, and lament my ſins; Chief, as I am, of ſinners! Guiltier far Than he, who, falling, at the cock's ſhrill call Roſe, and repented weeping: Guiltier far— I dare not ſay, than Judas; for my heart Hath ever lov'd—could never have betray'd. Oh never, never, Thee, dear Lord! to death; Though cruelly, unkindly and unwiſe, That heart hath ſacrific'd its truth and peace, —For what a ſhameful, what a paltry price!— To ſin, deteſted ſin; and done thee wrong, Oh bleſſed ſource of all its good, its hope! For, though thus ſunk, thus ſinful, ſorrowing thus, It dare not, cannot Judas' crime commit, Laſt crime—and of thy mercy, Lord, deſpair! But, conſcious of its guilt; contrite and plung'd In loweſt ſelfabjection, in the depths Of ſad compunction, of repentance due And undiſſembled, to thy croſs it cleaves, And cries for—ardent cries for mercy, Lord! Mercy, its only refuge! Mercy, CHRIST! By the red drops that in the garden guſh'd 'Midſt thy ſoul's anguiſh from Thee! By the drops That down thy precious temples, from the crown Of agony diſtill'd! By thoſe that flow'd From thy pierc'd hands, and bleſſed feet ſo free; By all thy blood, thy ſufferings and thy death, Mercy, Oh mercy, JESUS! Mercy, Thou. Who erſt on David, with a clement eye. When mourning at thy footſtool, deign'dſt to look! Thou, who th' adulterous Magdalen forgav'ſt When in the winning garb of penitence Contrite ſhe knelt, and with her flowing tears Waſh'd lowly thy lov'd feet! Nor thou the thief, Ev'n in the laſt, the bittereſt hour of pain, Refuſedſt, gracious! Nor wilt thou refuſe My humble ſupplication! nor reject My broken, bleeding heart, thus offer'd up On true contrition's altar; while through Thee, Only through Thee acceptance do I hope, Thou bleeding love! conſummate advocate, Prevailing interceſſor, great high prieſt, Almighty ſufferer! Oh look pitying down! On thy ſufficient merits I depend; From thy unbounded mercies I implore The look of pardon, and the voice of grace Grace, grace!—Victorious conqueror over ſin, O'er death, o'er hell, for me, for all mankind; For grace I plead: Repentant at thy feet I throw myſelf, unworthy, loſt, undone; Truſting my ſoul, and all its dear concerns, With filial reſignation, to thy will: Grace—ſtill on grace my whole reliance built! Glory to grace triumphant!—And to THEE, Diſpenſer bounteous of that ſovereign grace! JESUS, thou king of glory! at thy call I come obedient: Lo, the future world Expands its views tranſporting! Lord, I come; And in that world eternal truſt to 'plaud, With all redemption's ſons, thy glorious grace! Then farewel, Oh my friends! light o'er my grave The green ſod lay, and dew it with the tear Of memory affectionate! And you —The curtain dropt deciſive—Oh my foes, Your rancour drop; and, candid, as I am, Speak of me, hapleſs! Then you'll ſpeak of one, Whoſe boſom beat at pity's gentleſt touch From earlieſt infancy: Whoſe boyiſh mind In acts humane and tender ever joy'd; And who—that temper by his inmoſt ſenſe Approv'd and cultivate with conſtant care— Melted thro' life at ſorrow's plaintive tale; And urg'd, compaſſionate with pleaſure ran To ſoothe the ſufferer, and relieve the woe— Of one, who, though to humble fortune bred, With ſplendid generoſity's bright form Too ardently enamour'd, turn'd his ſight Deluded, from frugality's juſt care, And parſimony needful!—ONE, who ſcorn'd Mean love of gold, yet to that power—his ſcorn Retorting vengeful—a mark'd victim fell!— Of one, who, unſuſpecting, and ill form'd For the world's ſubtleties, his bare breaſt bore Unguarded, open; and, ingenuous, thought All men ingenuous, frank and open too!— Of one, who, warm with human paſſions, ſoft To tendereſt impreſſions, frequent ruſh'd Precipitate into the tangling maze Of errour;—inſtant to each fault alive, Who, in his little journey through the world— Miſled, deluded oft, miſtook his way; Met with bad roads and robbers, for his ſteps Inſidious lurking: And, by cunning craft Of fellow travellers ſometimes deceiv'd, Severely felt of cruelty and ſcorn, Of envy, malice, and of ill report, The heavy hand oppreſſive—One, who brought —From ignorance, from indiſcretion blind— Ills numerous on his head; but never aim'd, Nor wiſh'd an ill or injury to man! Injur'd, with cheerful readineſs forgave; Nor for a moment in his happy heart Harbour'd of malice or revenge a thought: Still glad and bleſt to avenge his foes' deſpite By deeds of love benevolent!—Of one Oh painful contradiction! Who in GOD, In duty, plac'd the ſummit of his joy; Yet left that GOD, that bliſsful duty left, Prepoſterous, vile deſerter! and receiv'd A juſt return—"deſertion from his GOD, And conſequential plunge into the depth Of all his preſent—of all human woe!" Then hear his ſufferings! Hear, if found too faint His feeble ſong to win attention, hear, And heed his dying counſel! Cautious, ſhun The rocks on which he ſplit. Cleave cloſe to God, Your father, ſure protector, and defence: Forſake not his lov'd ſervice; and your cauſe Be ſure He'll ne'er forſake. Initiated once, Happy and proſperous, in Religion's courſe, Oh perſevere unfainting! Nor to vice Or tempting folly ſlighteſt parley give: Their black tents never enter: On the watch Continue unremitting, nor e'er ſlack The neceſſary guard. Trivial neglects, Smalleſt beginnings, to the wakeful foe Open the door of danger;—and down ſinks, Through the minuteſt leak once ſprung, the ſhip In gayeſt and moſt gallant tackle trim. By ſmall neglects he fell!— Oh could ye riſe, Bleſt Miniſters of peace, by his ſad fall; Gather increaſe of caution and of zeal; And, ſeeing on what ſlippery edge ye ſtand, Of foul and fatal lapſe take the more heed;— With deeper thankfulneſs he'd bow the knee, While thus his fate productive prov'd of good To you, of truth bleſt heralds! whom he views With heart felt anguiſh ſcandaliz'd, impugn'd By his atrocious follies: But for that Not honour'd leſs, or honourable, if rous'd, Ev'n by his errours, wiſely you maintain Your high profeſſion's dignity; and look With ſingle eye intent on the great work Thrice holy, of your calling; happieſt work Of mortals here, "Salvation of men's ſouls." Oh envied paſtor, who thus occupied Looks down on low preferment's diſtant views Contemptible; nor e'er his plotting mind To little, mean ſervilities enſlaves; Forgetting duty's exerciſe ſublime, And his attachments heavenly! Who nor joins In frivolous converſe on the riſe of this, Nor proſpects flattering of that worldly clerk; Strange inconſiſtency! marching aloft With ſtep ſuperiour and ambition's paw To dignity's wiſh'd ſummit!—Nor allows Envious, or ſpreads malicious the low tales Diminiſhing of brethren, who by zeal, Or eminence of merit in the cauſe, The common cauſe of Chriſt, diſtinguiſh'd ſhine: Of futile politicks and party rage, Who, heedleſs, ever for the powers that be In meek ſincerity implores; and lives Only to ſpread around the good, the peace, The truth, the happineſs, his open heart Innocuous poſſeſſes, as the gift Of him, the GOD of peace he ſerves and loves! Much envied paſtor! Ah, ye men of GOD, Who crowd the levee, theatre, or court; Foremoſt in each amuſement's idle walk, Of vice and vanity the ſportive ſcorn, The vaunted pillars;—ah, that ye were all Such happy, envied paſtors! How mankind With eyes of reverence would devoutly look, How would yourſelves with eyes of pleaſure look, On characters ſo uniform! while now, What view is found leſs pleaſing to the ſight! Nor wonderful, my aged friends! For none Can inward look complacent, where a void Preſents its deſolations drear and dark. Hence 'tis you turn, incapable to bear Reflection's juſt reſentment, your lull'd minds To infantine amuſements; and employ The hours—ſhort hours, indulgent heaven affords For purpoſes moſt ſolemn—in the toil Of buſy trifling; of diverſions poor, Which irritate as often as amuſe, Paſſions moſt low and ſordid! With due ſhame, With ſorrow I regret—Oh pardon me This mighty wrong;—that frequent by your ſide Silent I've ſat, and with a pitying eye Your follies mark'd, and unadmoniſh'd left, Tho' tenderly lamenting! Yet, at laſt, —If haply not too late my friendly call Strike on dead ears, Oh profit by that call! And, to the grave approaching, its alarms Weigh with me all conſiderate! Brief Time Advances quick in tread; few hours and dark Remain: Thoſe hours in frivolous employ Waſte not impertinent; they ne'er return! Nor deem it dulneſs to ſtand ſtill and pauſe, When dread eternity hath claim ſo high. Oh be thoſe claims fulfill'd! Nor, my Young Friends, Whom life's gay ſunſhine warms with laughing joy, Paſs you thoſe claims unheeding!—In the bud Of earlieſt roſe oft have I ſorrowing ſeen The canker worm lurk blighting; oft, ere noon, The tulip have beheld drop its proud head, In eminent beauty open'd to the morn! In Youth, in beauty, in life's outward charms Boaſt not ſelf flattering; virtue has a grace, Religion has a power, which will preſerve Immortal your true excellence! Oh give Early and happy your young hearts to GOD! And GOD will ſmile in countleſs bleſſings on you! Nor, captivate by faſhion's idle glare, And the world's ſhews deluſive, dance the maze, The ſame dull round, fatiguing and fatigu'd; Till, diſcontented, down in folly's ſeat, And diſappointment's, worthleſs, toil'd, you ſink, Deſpiſing and deſpis'd! your gentle hearts To kind impreſſions yet ſuſceptible, Will amiably hear a friend's advice; And if, perchance, amidſt the giddy whirl Of circling folly, his unheeded tongue Hath whiſper'd vanity, or not announc'd Truth's ſalutary dictates to your ears— Forgive the injury, my friends belov'd; And ſee me now, ſolicitous t' atone That, and each fault, each error; with full eyes Entreating you, by all your hopes and fears, By all your dear anxieties, by all You hold in life moſt precious, to attend, To liſten to his lore! to ſeek for bliſs In GOD, in piety! in hearts devote To duty and to heav'n! And ſeeking thus, The treaſure is your own. Angels on earth, Thus pure and good, ſoon will ye mount, and live Eternal angels with your Father GOD! Of admonition due, juſt ſelf contempt, And frank expoſtulation's honeſt charge, The needful debt thus paid; haſte thou, my ſong, As haſtes my life—brief ſhadow—to its cloſe! Then farewel, Oh my friends, moſt valued! Bound By conſanguinity's endearing tie, Or friendſhip's noble ſervice, manly love, And generous obligations! See, in all —And ſpare the tear of pity—heaven's high will Ordaining wiſe and good. I ſee, I own His diſpenſation, howſoever harſh, To my hard heart, to my rebellious ſoul Needful and ſalutary! His dread rod Paternal, lo I kiſs! And to the ſtroke Severe, ſubmiſſive, thankfully reſign! It weans me from the world; it proves how vain, How poor the life of erring man!— hath taught, Experimentally hath taught, to look With ſcorn, with triumph upon death; —to wiſh The moment come!—Oh were that moment come, When, launch'd from all that's ſinful here below, Securely I ſhall ſail along the tide Of glorious eternity! My friends, Belov'd and honour'd, Oh that we were launch'd, And ſailing happy there, where ſhortly all Muſt one day ſail! Oh that in peaceful port We all were landed! all together ſafe In everlaſting amity and love, With GOD, our GOD; our pilot thro' the ſtorms Of this life's ſea!—But, why the frivolous wiſh? Set a few ſuns—a few more days decline; And I ſhall meet you—oh the gladſome hour! Meet you in glory—nor with flowing tears Afflicted drop my pen, and ſigh—Adieu! FINIS