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As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
Desporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace -
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthrall ?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball ?

While some on earnest business bent,

Their murm'ring labours ply,

'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, shew them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd'rous band! Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury-passions tear,
The vultures of the mind-
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth;
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high; To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it fore'd to flow;
And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness, laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo! in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen —

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen!

This racks the joints; this fires the veins; That ev'ry lab'ring sinew strains;

Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan

The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,

Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies?

Thought would destroy their paradise:
No more ;-where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise!



LIFE is a sea, where storms must rise;
'Tis folly talks of cloudless skies.
Be still, nor anxious thoughts employ,
Distrust embitters present joy.

On God for all events depend;

You cannot want when God 's your friend:

Weigh well your part, and do


Leave to your Maker all the rest.


The hand which form'd thee in the womb,
Guides from the cradle to the tomb.

Can the fond mother slight her boy?
Can she forget her prattling joy?
Say, then, shall Sov'reign Love desert
The humble and the honest heart?
Heav'n may not grant thee all thy mind,
Yet say not thou that Heav'n's unkind:
God is alike both good and wise
In what he grants, and what denies.
Perhaps, what goodness gives to-day,
To-morrow goodness takes away.

You say

that troubles intervene,

That sorrow darkens half the scene:


- and this consequence you see,

This world was ne'er design'd for thee.
You're like a passenger below,
That stays, perhaps, a night or so;
But still his native country lies
Beyond the bound'ries of the skies.
Of Heaven ask virtue, wisdom, health—
But never let thy prayer be wealth.
If food be thine (though little gold),
And raiment to repel the cold
Such as may nature's wants suffice,
Not what from pride and folly rise;
If soft the motions of thy soul,

And a calm conscience crowns the whole,-
Add but a friend to all this store,

You can't in reason wish for more.
And if kind Heav'n this comfort brings,

'Tis more than Heav'n bestows on kings.

Morning Hymn.

AWAKE, my soul! and with the sun

Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise,
To pay thy morning sacrifice.

Thy precious time mispent redeem ;
Each present day thy last esteem;
Improve thy talent with due care,
For the great day thyself prepare.


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