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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.
For ftill had he his slumbers watch'd,

Through many a long and dismal night;
And rous'd him from his pallet hard,

To meet his toil ere morning light.
And well his brain remember'd yet,

He never patter'd tow'rds his bed;
Or lodgʻd his long face on his cheek,

But straight he firr’d, or rais'd his head.
Yes, he remember'd, and with tears,

His loving master's kind replies;
When dumbly he contriv'd to say,

“ The cock has crow'd, my mafer, rise."
But now the paw, the scratch, the whine,

To howlings chang'd, alone can tell
The suff'rings of instinctive love,

When fruitless prov'd its fimple spell.
Great grief affail'd his untaught heart,

And quickly laid its victim low!
His master's cheek-his pillow cold,

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!
Long, long have I beneath life's fhades reclinod,

And long by wanton Fortune been deceiv’d,
Yet still thy promis’d sunshine footh’d my mind;
And said,

“ 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.
Ah! let the kind delusion yet be giv’n,
And bid my languid soul anticipate a heav'n!



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.
Ev'n so would I, secure from Fortune's frown,

In life's fequester'd vale unnotic'd dwell;
The tinsel splendour of the world disown,

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!




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

worn wretch.



UR Dazzle's Coach, in gaudy state,

When, lo! the farming Cart came out,
And Coach was forc'd to turn about
Then drawing up, with high disdain, incent and main,

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* 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
“ But t'other day, your horses' heels
" Befpatter'd my new-painted wheels
" Begone, thou wretch-go; carry hay,
Your dung, your straw, your gravel-clay;

Keep distance due, nor dare approach
“ The presence of your master's Coach.”

With modeft tone, the Cart reply'd,
“ Thou gaudy thing! I fpurn thy pride : ,
Yet, pompous gewgaw! know from me,

My labour's the fupport of thee !
“ Did I not early toil, and late,
“ Thou foon would't drop thy boasted state-
“ Did I not groan beneath manure,
“ The equipage would not be sure-
“ And thould I not the mart attend,

Thy dignity would have an end--
“I grant thou hast some little use;
“ But why throw out such low abuse?
• Learn reason-act thy proper part
“ We both are servants-Coach and Cart,

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