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Blest spirit thou, whose faine, just born to !

*MAN SPEAKER. bloom,

| Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, Shall spread and fourish from the tomb,

| Teach us to estimate what all must suffer: How bast thou left mankind for Hearen!

Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, Even now reproach and faction mourni,

As a safe inn where weary travellers, And, wondering how their rage was born,

When they have journey'd thro' a world of cares, Request to be forgiven!

May put off life and be at rest for ever, Alas! they never had thy hate:

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy saUnmov'd in conscious rectitude,

bles, Thy towering mind self-centred stood,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity. Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.

The preparation is the executioner. In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, A thousand gifts would fortune send :

And is a terrour only at a distance:
In vain, to drive thee from the right,

For as the line of life conducts me on
A thousand sorrows urged thy end :
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience

To death's great court, the prospect seems more

fair, stood,

Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open And purchased strength from its increasing load.

To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Aliction still is virtue's opportunity!

Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat, Virtue on herself relying,

Where all the humble, all the great, Every passion hush'd to rest,

Promiscuously recline: Loses every pain of dying

Where wildly huddled to the eye, In the hopes of being blest.

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, Every added pang she sntlers,

May every bliss be thine. Some increasing good bestows,

And ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, And every shock that malice offers,

Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, Only rocks her to repose.

May cherubs welcome their expected guest, SONG. BY A MAN--AFFSTUOSO.

May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,

May peace that claim'd while here thy warmest Virtue on herself relying, &c.

love, to Oply rocks her to repose.

May blissful endless peace be thine above,

SONG. BY A WOMAN-AMOROSO. Yet ah! what terrours frown'd upon her fate,

Lovely lasting Peace below, Death with its formidable band,

Comforter of every woe, Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,

Heavenly porn and bred on high, Determined took their stand.

To crown the favourites of tbe sky; Nor did the cruel ravagers design

Lovely lasting Peace appear, To finish all their efforts at a blow :

This world itself, if thou art here, But, mischievously slow,

Is once again with Eden blest,
They rob'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.

And man contains it in his breast.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round,
Beheld each hour

Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, Death's growing pow'r,

Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : And trembled as he frown'd.

Celestial-like her bounty fell, As helpless friends who view from shore

Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell, The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, Want pass'd for merit at her door, While winds and waves their wisbes cross : Unseen the modest were supplied, They stood while hope and comfort fail,

Her constant pity fed the poor, Not to assist, but to bewail

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. The inevitable loss.

And oh! for this! while sculpture decks by Relentless tyrant, at thy call

shrine, How do the good, the virtuous fall! .

And art exbausts profusion round,
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, The tribute of a tear be mine,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,

To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay: When vice my dart and scythe supply,

And calm Religion shall repair How great a king of terrours 1 !

To dwell a weeping hermit there. If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,

Truthi, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree' Treinble ye mortals at my rage !

To blend their virtues while they think of thee, Fall, round me fall, ye little things, Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings 3

AIR. CHORUS–POMPOSO. If virtue fail her counsel sage,

Let us, let all the world agree, Tremble, ye murtals, at my rage!

To profit by resembling thee.


| But all my wants, before I spoke,

Were to my mistress known;

She still reliev'd, nor sought my praise,

Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless, Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent My morning prayer, my evening song, stream

I'll praise her while my life shall last,
Reflects new glories on his breast,

A life that cannot last me long.
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest :

Where sculptur'd elegance and pative grace Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place: My morning and my evening song,
While, sweetly blending, still are seen

And when in death my vows shall cease,
The wavy lawn, the sloping green:

My children shall the note prolong.
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,

From China borrows aid to deck the scene : The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
There sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, Scarr'd, mangl'd, maim'd in every part,
Forlorn, a rural bard complain'd,

Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, All whom AUGUSTA's bounty fed,

In nought entire except his heart: All whom her clemency sustain'd;

Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd, The good old sire, unconscious of decay,

At last the impetuous sorrow fir'd his breast.
The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey, Wild is the whirlwind rolling
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,

O’er Afric's sandy plain,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd; And wild the tempest howling
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, Along the billow'd main :
And as they view the towers of Kew,

But every danger felt before,
Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep. The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,

Less dreadful struck me with dismay,

Than what I feel this fatal day.
Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,

| Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,

Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave; Let all your echoes now deplore,

I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, That she who form'd your beauties is no more. And lay my body where my limbs were lost.

SONG. BY A MAN.-BASSO SPIRITUOSO. MAN SPEAKER, First of the train the patient rustic came, Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Whose callous hand had form'd the scene, Shall crowd from Cressy's laureli'd field, Bending at once with sorrow and with age, To do thy memory right: With many a tear, and many a sigh between,

For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, “ And where," he cried, “ shall now my babes | Again they snatch the gleamy steel, have bread,

| And wish the avenging fight. Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,

WOMAN SPEAKER. Nor can my strength perform what they require: In innocence and youth complaining, Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,

Next appear'd a lovely maid, A sleek and idle race is all their care:

Affliction o'er each feature reigning, My noble mistress thought not so !

Kindly came in beauty's aid ; Her bounty, like the morning dew,

Every grace that grief dispenses, Unseen, tho' constant, used to flow,

Every glance that warms the soul, And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

In sweet succession charms the senses,

While pity harmoniz'd the whole.


" The garland of beauty” ('tis thus she would In decent dress, and coarsely clean,

“No more shall my crook or my temples adorn, The pious matron next was seen,

P'll not wear a garland, AUGUSTA's away, Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, I'll not wear a garland until she return: By use and daily meditation worn;

But alas ! that return I never shall see: That decent dress, this holy guide,

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, AUGUSTA's care had well supply'd.

There promis'd a lover to come, but, oh me! And ah! she cries, all woe begone,

'Twas death,'twas the death of my mistress that What now remains for me?

came. Oh! where shall weeping want repair

But ever, for ever, her image shall last, To ask for charity?

I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom; Too late in life for me to ask,

On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be And shame prevents the deed,

cast, And tardy, tardy are the times

And the new-blossom'd thora shall whiten her To succour, should I need.



And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

And the new-blossom'd thoru shall whiten her With garlands of beauty the queen of the May

tomb. No more will her crook or her temples adorn;

For wbu'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is remov'd, and shall never return,

On the grave of AUGUSTA this garland be plac'd,

We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, On the grave of AUGUSTA these garlands be And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, plac'd,

And the tears of her country shall water her We'll rifle the Spriog of its earliest bloo!n,







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