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Who, lower'd in pride, and baffled by defeat,
From plunder'd Poland makes a base retreat!
Then let the pen enforce this sacred truth,
And write it early on the heart of youth;
A theme all worldly lessons far above,
That their first duty is their country's love!
Teach them that freeborn empires sink or rise,
As men this duty honour, or despise-
Teach them with loyal zeal to guard the Throne,
Convinc'd their Monarch's interests are their own.
Parties, by turns, may triumph, or may fall,
But England's welfare is above them all!
Whoever rules, no change the patriot knows-
He loves his Country, and detests her foes!

THE HOROLOGE OF THE FIELDS.

Addressed to a Young Lady, on seeing at the House of an Acquaintance

a magnificent French Time-piece.

(From Charlotte Smith's Poems.) OR her who owns this splendid toy,

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Mark where transparent waters glide,

Soft flowing o'er their tranquil bed;
There, cradled ou the dimpling tide,
Nymphæa rests her lovely head.

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But conscious of the earliest beam,

She rises from her humid rest, And sees reflected in the stream

The virgin whiteness of her breast.

Till the bright day-star to the west

Declines in ocean's surge to lave, Then folded in her modest vest,

She slumbers on the rocking wave.

See Hieracium's various tribe,

Of plumy seed and radiate flowers, The course of Time their blooms describe,

And wake or sleep appointed hours.

Broad o'er its imbricated cup

The Goatsbeard spreads its golden rays, But shuts its cautious petals up,

Retrealing froin the noon-tide blaze:

Pale as a pensive cloister'd nun

The Bethlem-star her face unveils, When o'er the mountain peers the sun,

But shades it from the vesper gales.

Among the loose and arid sands

The hunnble Arenaria creeps; Slowly the purple star expands,

But soon within its calyx sleeps.

And those small bells so lightly ray'd

With young Aurora's rosy hue; Are to the noon-tide sun display'd,

But shut their plaits against the dew.

On upland slopes the shepherds mark

The hour, when, as the dial true, Cichorium to the towe ing lark,

Lifts her soft eyes, serenely blue.

And thou, “ Wee crimson tipped flower,"

Gatherest thy fringed mantle round Thy bosom, at the closiog lour,

When night-drops bathe the turfy ground. Unlike Silene, who declines

The garish noontide's blazing light;
But when the evening crescent shine's

Gives all her sweetness to the night.
Thus in each flower and simple bell,

That in our path untrodden lie,
Are sweet remembrancers who tell

How fast the winged moments fly.

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But in thy gospel see it shine,
With grace and glories more divine,

Proclaiming shuis torgiven;
There Faith, bright cherub), points the way
To realms of ever tasting day,
And opens all her heaven.

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Then

Then let the love that makes me blest,
With cheerful praise inspire my breast,

And ardent gratitude;
And all my thoughts and passions tend
To thee, my father and my friend,

My soul's eternal good.

Dart from thine own celestial flame
One vivid beam to warm my frame

With kindred energy ;
Mark thine own image on my mind ;
And teach me to be good and kind,

And love, and bless like thee.

FAITH.

From the same.

L

IFE'S ceaseless labours, and illusive joys,

Its storms and waves, what brazen breast could bear, Did not the cherub Faith's reviving voice

Sound its sweet music in affliction's ear?

See she waves high upon her heavenly shore

Her faming brand, that guides me to be blest ! Ye foaming billows roll !-ye tempests roar!

Your rage but drives me sooner to my rest.

The seaman thus, long tost by stormy seas,
Worn out with toil, and sinking with disease,

With looks of rapture eyes the black’ning land,
Forgets the past, and smiles at present pain,
Feels a new vigour thrill through ev'ry vein,

And leaps exulting on the welcome strand,

DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN, AND HELL.

From Short Pieces in Verse, by Clericus.

HY terrors, Death! and wide-extended reign,

Thy gloomy mansions, and thy awful train,
The day of judgment, God's avenging might,
Heaven's wona'rous brightness dimming mortal sight,
And hell's dark dungeons, hid in ien-fold night.
My Muse in humble numbers fain would sing,
Guided by thy blest spirit, glorions King!

Whose

Whose succour I implore,-0! hear my prayer,
And shield thy suppliant with almighty care.

Mourn, Adam's sons, the fatal sentence mourn!
“ Sprong from the dust, to dust ye shall return;"
Your days are few, your race is swiftly run,
The shades of night soon shroud your settiug sun.
Naked ye left your mother's fruitful womb,
And Death shall hide you naked in the tomb.
Wise men and fools, the coward and the brave,
The prince, the peasant, hero, captive slave,
Moulder together in one common grave.
The servant hears no more his master's call,
The prisoner freed escapes the dungeon wall;
The wicked cease from troubling, peaceful rest
With dovelike calm broods o'er the weary breast.
The lofty palace, and the frowning gate,
The pride of office, and the pomp of state,
With all the peagantry of human show,
Are by the conquering hand of Death laid low.

Our days are quickly gone, in baste they flee
Swift as a vessel ploughs the yielding sea;
Swift as the whizzing arrow cuts its way,
Swift as the eagle pounces on its prey.

As the rude ploughshare crops the blooming flower,
So falls our house of clay, to rise on earth no more!
The fairest face, the eve divinely bright,
Are food for worms hid in sepulchral night,
Wealth, honour, glory, beauty soon decay,
And nought abides when man is call’d away.
Of all the caskets which thy house contains,
Save one poor coffin nothing now remains ;
Though of rich dresses thou wast lately proud,
They all are dwindled to one woollen shroud.

Where are our sires ? gone to their silent home.
And where the prophets ? hid within the tomb.
Our saviour Christ himself resign’d his breath,
And paid man's forfeit by a painful death :
Rose the third day triumphant o'er the grave,
And wav'd the banner'd cross omnipotent to save:
Ascended glorious to his native skies,
To teach bis followers from this earth to rise,
And gain a beavenly crown, their faith's immortal prize.

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