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" But yet,
His heart's best chord was yet in ture,
Unsnapp'd by cold feverity; Touch'd was that chord-his dim
beam'd Suffused sensibility. “ 'Tis juft, (he said,) that where thou lyst,
“ The careless thepherd boy should hie; “ Thou dy'ft, poor fool! for want of food;
I fall, for fuff’ring thee to die. “ But, O my master!"_broken-fhort
Was ev'ry half-word now he spoke “ Severe has been thy constant will, “ And galling sure thy heavy yoke.
. in all my best,' have I “ Without a 'plaint my hardships bore; “ Rufus !-may all my pangs be part
“ Master !—my suff'rings are no more. “ A warmer couch haft thou to press,
“ Secure from cramping frofts thy feet; 6 And could'st thou boast fo free a breast,
“ Thou yet might'lt die a death as sweet. “ My trusty dog-that wistful look
“ Ís all that makes my poor heart heave; “ But hie thee home-proclaim me dead,
Forget to think-and cease to grieve." So saying, shrunk the hapless youth
Beneath the chilling grasp of death; And clasping poor Tray's shaggy neck, Sighid gently forth his
breath. His faithful, fond, fagacious dog,
Hung watchful o'er his master's clay; And many a moan the old fool made,
And many a thing he strove to say. He paw'd him with his hard-worn foot,
He lick'd him with his fcarce warm tongue; His cold nose strove to catch his breath,
As to his clos'd lips close it clung. But not a sign of lurking life,
Thro' all his frame, he found to creep;
He knew not what it was to die,
But knew his master did not sleep.
Through many a long and dismal night;
To meet his toil ere morning light.
He never patter'd tow'rds his bed;
But straight he firr’d, or rais'd his head.
His loving master's kind replies;
“ The cock has crow'd, my mafer, rise."
To howlings chang'd, alone can tell
When fruitless prov'd its fimple spell.
And quickly laid its victim low!
Their common bed the colder snow!
Heav'n-born Hope! best friend of Mis’ry's child,
Thou gift transcendent of the Pow’rs on high! Oh! deign to visit one, whose heart, despoild
Of ev'ry joy, on thee would ftill rely!
And long by wanton Fortune been deceiv’d,
“ To-inorrow all will be retriev'd.” Depriv'd of thee, ah! whither shall I go?
See, fell Despair with haggard eye appears!
Oh! save me! fave me! but one smile below,
To daunt that fiend, and diffipate my fears.
BY THE SAME.
NUBDU'D by Grief, low at thy injur'd shrine, 0
; Nor more shall I at Fate's decrees repine,
Since thy propitious hand can yieid me all. The primrose pale, that blooms beneath the thorn, Protected
from elemental shock; While from the cloud-encircled hills are torn
The lofty cedar and the knotted oak.
In life's fequester'd vale unnotic'd dwell;
And ev'ry lawless gust of passion quell.. To prescient Heav'n's all-potent will refign'd, In folitude serene I'll more than pleasure find!
BY THE SAME.
Unknown to avarice or lavish glee, There joyful spend the circling year in peace,
Divine Contentment! while I dwell with thee. , On Alpine hills behold the sun-beat hind,
Remote from care, amid his flock repose, While pleasing dreams of fancy foothe his mind,
And light-wing'd Zephyrus around him blows.
No thought ambitious fires his tranquil soul,
No parsimonious lust of wealth is there; The gifts of Nature all these thoughts control, And for celestial scenes his mind
prepare. 'Tis mild Contentment that becalms his breast; Oh! then, beneath thy shade with Virtue let me reft!
Gulate whe swallow on yon turfy bed,
Much will he fruggle, but can never sise; Go raise him even with the daisy's head,
And the poor twitt'rer like an arrow flies. So oft, through life, the man of pow’rs and worth,
Haply the cat'rer for an infant train, Like Burns, muft struggle on the bare-worn earth,
While all his efforts to arise are vain. Yet should the hand of relative, or friend,
Just from the surface lift the suff'ring wight, Soon would the wings of industry extend,
Soon would he rise from anguish to delight.Go then, ye affluent! go, your hands out-stretch, And, from despair's dark verge, oh! raise the woe
THE COACH AND CART.
UR Dazzle's Coach, in gaudy state,
When, lo! the farming Cart came out,
* The Cart addrefs Thou low.liv'd thing Faugh! what a horrid (cent
you bring“ Do, pray be gone—no longer hurt
My nose refind-with filthy dirt
Keep distance due, nor dare approach
With modeft tone, the Cart reply'd,
My labour's the fupport of thee !
Thy dignity would have an end--