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We'll form their minds, with studious care, To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies,
While they our wisest hours engage,
And crown our hoary hairs:
And recompense our cares.
No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
Or by the world forgot:
envy not your state ; We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humble lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed :
For Nature's calls are few:.
In this the art of living lies,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish, with content,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r ;
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd when ills betide,
And pleas'd with favours given;
This is that incense of the heart
Whose fragrance smells to Heaven.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we 'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes
The relics of our store.
Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we 'll go; Its checquer'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious steps we 'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.
While CONSCIENCE, like a faithful friend, Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath ; Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind Angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.
BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.
SWELL the clarion, sweep the string,
Blow into rage the Muse's fires ! All thy answers, Echo, bring, Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring,
'T is Madness' self inspires.
Hail, awful MADNESS, hail!
Thy realm extends, thy powers prevail, Far as the voyager spreads his 'vent'rous sail.
Nor best 'nor wisest are exempt from thee;
Hark!-To the astonish'd ear
Phrenzy leads her Chorus near,
Pride-Ambition, idly vain-
Hope in disappointment lostAnd injur’d Merit, with a downcast eye, (Hurt by neglect) slow stalking heedless by.
Loud the shouts of MADNESS rise,
Bursts of laughter-heart-felt groans. All seem to pierce the skies.
Rough as the wintry wave that roars