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'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort,

By way of wholesome curb upon our pride,
What makes some sick, and others à-la-mort : To fear each other, fearing none beside.
An argument of cogence, we may say,

The cause, perhaps, inquiry may descry,
Why such a one should keep himself away. Self-searching with an introverted eye,

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, Conceal'd within an unsuspected part, Quite as absurd, though not so light as he: The vainest corner of our own vain heart. A shallow brain behind a serious mask,

For ever aiming at the world's esteem, An oracle within an empty cask,

Our self-importance ruins its own scheme;
The solemn fop; significant and budge;

In other eyes our talents rarely shown,
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge; Become at length so splendid in our own.
He says but little, and that little said

We dare not risk them into public view,
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.
His wit invites you by his looks to come,

True modesty is a discerning grace, But when you knock it never is at tome:

And only blushes in the proper place; 'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage,

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Some handsome present, as your hopes presage ;

Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t'appear: 'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove

Humility the parent of the first, An absent friend's fidelity and love;

The last by Vanity produc'd and nurs’d. But when umpack'd, your disappointment groans

The circle form’d, we sit in silent state, To find it stufl"'d with brick bats, earth, and stones. Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate ;

Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, “ Yes, ma'am,” and “No, ma'am,” utter'd softly, In making known how oft they have been sick,

show And give us in recitals of disease

Ev'ry five minutes how the minutes go; A doctor's trouble, but without the fees;

Each individual suff’ring a constraint
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, Poetry may, but colors cannot, paint,
How an emetic or cathartic sped;

As if in close committee on the sky,
Nothing is slightly touch’d, much less forgot, Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ;
Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot. And finds a changing clime a happy source
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill,

Of wise reflection, and well-tim'd discourse.
Victorious seem'd, and now the doctor's skill; We next inquire, but sofily and by stealth,
And now-alas, for unforeseen mishaps !

Like conservators of the public health, They put on a damp night-cap, and relapse ; Of epidemic throats, if such there are, They thought they must have died, they were so bad; And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and catarrh. Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,

Some fretful tempers wince at ev'ry touch, Fillid up at last with interesting news, You always do too little, or too much :

Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed, You speak with life, in hopes to entertain,

And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed :
Your elevated voice goes through the brain; But fear to call a more important cause,
You fall at once into a lower key,

As if 't were treason against English laws.
That's worse the drone-pipe of an humblebee. The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,
The southern sash admits too strong a light, As from a sey'n years' transportation, home,
You rise and drop the curtain-now 'tis night. And there resume an unembarrass'd brow,
He shakes with cold-you stir the fire and strive Recov'ring what we lost we know not how,
To make a blaze—that's roasting him alive. The faculties, that seem'd reduc'd to nought,
Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish; Expression and the privilege of thought.
With sole- that's just the sort he would not wish. The reeking, roaring hero of the chase,
He takes what he at first profess'd to lothe, I give him over as a desp'rate case.
And in due time feeds heartily on both ;

Physicians write in hopes to work a cure.
Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown, Never, if honest ones, when death is sure ;
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. And though the fox he follows may be tam'd,
Your hope to please him vain on ev'ry plan, A mere fox-follower never is reclaim'd.
Himself should work that wonder, if he can- Some farrier should prescribe his proper course,
Alas! his efforts double his distress,

Whose only fit companion is his horse;
He likes yours litile, and his own still less. Or if, deserving of a better doom,
Thus always teasing others, always teas'd,

The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom.
His only pleasure is——to be displeas'd.

Yet ev'n the rogue that serves him, though he I pity bashful men, who feel the pain

sland, Of fancied scorn and undeserv'd disdain,

To take his honor's orders, cap in hand, And bear the marks upon a blushing face

Prefers his fellow-grooms with much good sense, Of needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace. Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence. Our sensibilities are so acute,

If neither horse nor groom affect the squire, The fear of being silent makes us mute.

Where can at last his jockeyship retire? We sometimes think we could a speech produce O to the club, the scene of savage joys, Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose; The school of coarse good fellowship and noise ; But being tried, it dies upon the lip,

There, in the sweet society of those Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:

Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,

Let him improve his talent if he can, Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.

Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain'd; Man's heart had been impenetrably seal’d, It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd,

Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field

one

Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand

Go seek on Revelation's hallow'd ground, Giv'n him a soul, and bade him understand ; Sure to succeed, the remedy they found ; The reas'ning pow'r vouchsaf'd of course inferr'd Touch'd by that pow'r that you have dar'd to mock The pow'r to clothe that reason with his word; That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, For all is perfect, that God works on Earth, Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream, And he, that gives conception, aids the birth. That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood,

It happend on a solemn eventide, What uses of his boon the giver would.

Soon after He that was our Surety died, The Mind, dispatch'd upon her busy toil,

Two bosom friends, each pensively inclin'd, Should range where Providence has bless'd the soil ; The scene of all those sorrows left behind, Visiting ev'ry flow'r with labor meet,

Sought their own village, busied as they went And gath'ring all her treasures sweet by sweet, In musings worthy of the great event: She should imbue the tongue with what she sips, They spake of him they lov’d, of him whose life, And shed the balmy blessing on the lips,

Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife, That good diffus'd may more abundant grow, Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, And speech may praise the pow'r thai bids it flow. A deep memorial graven on their hearts. Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, The recollection, like a vein of ore, That fills the list ning lover with delight,

The farther trac'd, enrich'd them still the more ; Forget his harmony, with rapture heard,

They thought him, and they justly thought him To learn the twitt'ring of a meaner bird ? Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice,

Sent to do more than he appear'd t' have done ; That odious libel on a human voice;

T'exalt a people, and to place them high No-Nature, unsophisticate by man,

Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. Starts not aside from her Creator's plan;

Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, The melody, that was at first design'd

A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend,
To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind, And ask'd them with a kind engaging air
Is note for note deliver'd in our ears,

What their affliction was, and begg'd a share. In the last scene of her six thousand years. Inform’d, he gather'd up the broken thread, Yet Fashion, leader of a chalı'ring train,

And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said, Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign, Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well Who shifts and changes all things but his shape, The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, And would degrade her vot'ry to an ape,

That reaching home, “The night,” they said, " is The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong,

near, Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue ;

We must not now be parted—sojourn here." There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, The new acquaintance soon became a guest, Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace, And, made so welcome at their simple feast, And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school, He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word, Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. And left them both exclaiming, “ 'Twas the Lord! 'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree,

Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say, That none could frame or ratify but she,

Did they not burn within us by the way ?" That Heav'n and Hell, and righteousness and sin,

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, Man to maintain, and such as God approves : God and his attributes, (a field of day

Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray,)

But yet successful, being aim'd at him. Fruits of his love and wonders of his might,

Christ and his character their only scope, Be never nam'd in ears esteem'd polite.

Their object, and their subject, and their hope, That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, They felt what it became them much to feel, Shall stand proscrib'd, a madman or a knave, And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal, A close designer not to be believ'd,

Found him as prompt, as their desire was true, Or, if excus'd that charge, at least deceiv'd. To spread the new-born glories in their view. Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap,

Well-what are ages and the lapse of time Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap! Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime ? Is it incredible, or can it seem

Can length of years on God himself exaci, A dream to any, except those that dream,

Or make that fiction, which was once a fact?
That man should love his Maker, and that fire, No--marble and recording brass decay,
Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire ? And like the graver's mem'ry pass away;
Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes,

The works of man inherit, as is just,
And veil your daring crest that braves the skies; Their author's frailty, and return to dust :
That air of insolence affronts your God,

But truth divine for ever stands secure,
You need his pardon, and provoke his rod : Its head is guarded as its base is sure ;
Now, in a posture that becomes you more

Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, Than that heroic strut assum'd before,

The pillar of th' eternal plan appears, Know, your arrears with ev'ry hour accrue The raving storm and dashing wave defies, For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. Built by that Architect who built the skies. The time is short, and there are souls on Earth, Hearts may be found, that harbor at this bour Though future pain may serve for present mirth, That love of Christ, and all its quick’ning pow'r; Acquainted with the woes, that fear or shame, And lips unstain'd by folly or by strife, By Fashion taught, forbade them once to name, Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows Have prov'd them truths too big to be express'd. | A Jordan for th' ablution of our woes.

O days of Heav'n, and nights of equal praise, Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast,
Serene and peaceful as those heav'nly days, That in the valley of decline are lost,
When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet And Virtue with peculiar charms appears,
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat,

Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years; Discourse, as if releas'd and safe at home,

Yet Age, by long experience well informid, of dangers past, and wonders yet to come,

Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm'd, And spread the sacred treasures of the breast That fire abated, which impels rash youth, Upon the lap of covenanted Rest.

Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, · What, always dreaming over heav'nly things, As time improves the grape's authentic juice, Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings? Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, Canting and whining out all day the word,

And claims a rev'rence in its short'ning day, And half the night? fanatic and absurd !

That 'tis an honor and a joy to pay. Mine be the friend less frequent in his pray’rs, The fruits of Age, less fair, are yet more sound, Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, Than those a brighter season pours around; Whose wit can brighten up a wint'ry day,

And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, And chase the splenetic dull hours away ; Through wint'ry rigors unimpair'd endure. Content on Earth in earthly things to shine,

What is fanatic frenzy, scorn'd so much,
Who waits for Heav'n ere he becomes divine, And dreaded more than a contagious touch?
Leaves saints t' enjoy those altitudes they teach, I grant it dang’rous, and approve your fear,
And plucks the fruit plac'd more within his reach.” That fire is catching, if you draw too near;

Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame, But sage observers oft mistake the fame,
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. And give true piety that odious name.
Is sparkling wit the World's exclusive right? To tremble (as the creature of an hour
The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light? Ought at the view of an Almighty Pow'r)
Can hopes of Heav'n, bright prospects of an hour, Before his presence, at whose awful throne
That come to wast us out of Sorrow's pow'r, All tremble in all worlds, except our own,
Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds

To supplicate his mercy, love his ways,
Its happiest soil in the serenest minds?

And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, Religion curbs indeed its wanton play,

Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, And brings the trifler under rig'rous sway,

And free from bias, must approve the choice, But gives it usefulness unknown before,

Convicts a man fanatic in th' extreme, And, purifying, makes it shine the more.

And wild as madness in the world's esteem A Christian's wit is inoffensive light,

But that disease, when soberly defin'd, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight; Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind; Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth,

It views the truth with a distorted eye, 'Tis always active on the side of truth;

And either warps or lays it useless by ; Temp'rance and peace insure its healthful state, "Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws And make it brightest at its latest dale.

Its sordid nourishment from man's applause ; Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain,

And while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies, Ere life go down, to see such sights again)

Presumes itself chief fav’rite of the skies. A vet'ran warrior in the Christian field,

'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds Who never saw the sword he could not wield; In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, Grave without dullness, learned without pride, Shines in the dark, but, usher'd into day, Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-ey'd ;

The stench remains, the lustre dies away. A man that would have foil'd at their own play True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd A dozen would-bes of the modern day;

Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd ; Who, when occasion justified its use,

And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, Had wit as bright as ready to produce,

Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright. Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallow'd name, Or from philosophy's enlightend page,

Form, in its stead a covenant of shame, His rich materials, and regale your ear

A dark confed'racy against the laws With strains it was a privilege to hear :

Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause: Yet above all his luxury supreme,

They build each other up with dreadful skill, And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme; As bastions set point-blank against God's will: There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, Deeply resolv'd to shut a Savior out; Ambitious not to shine or to excel,

Call legions up from Hell to back the deed; But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.

And, curs’d with conquest, finally succeed. It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, But souls, that carry on a blest exchange When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, of joys, they meet with in their heav'nly range, Suppose themselves monopolists of sense,

And with a fearless confidence made known And wiser men's ability pretence.

The sorrows, sympathy esteems its own, Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Daily derive increasing light and force Such men are not forgot as soon as cold,

From such communion in their pleasant course, Their fragrant mem'ry will outlast their tomb, Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, Embalm'd for ever in its own perfume.

Meet their opposers with united strength, And to say truth, though in its early prime, And, one in heart, in int’rest, and design, And when unstain'd with any grosser crime, Gird up each other to the race divine.

But Conversation, choose what theme we may,

That while in health the ground of her support And chiefly when religion leads the way,

Is madly to forget that life is short;
Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, That sick she trembles, knowing she must die,
Not as if rais'd by mere mechanic pow'rs, Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie;
The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress'd, That while she dotes, and dreams that she believes,
Lives the dear thought of joys he once possessid, She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives,
When all his glowing language issued forth Her utmost reach, historical assent,
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth, The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant;
Will speak without disguise, and must impart, That truth itself is in her head as dull
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart,

And useless as a candle in a skull,
A bhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, And all her love of God a groundless claim,
Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel.

A trick upon the canvas, painted flame.
The song of Zion is a tasteless thing,

Tell her again, the sneer upon her face,
Unless, when rising on a joyful wing,

And all her censures of the work of grace,
The soul can mix with the celestial bands, Are insincere, meant only to conceal
And give the strain the compass it demands. A dread she would not, yet is forc'd to feel ;

Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat That in her heart the Christian she reveres,
All but their own experience as deceit!

And while she seems to scorn him, only fears. Will they believe, though credulous enough,

A poet does not work by square or line, To swallow much upon much weaker proof, As smiths and joiners perfect a design ; That there are blest inhabitants of Earth,

At least we moderns, our attention less,
Partakers of a new ethereal birth,

Beyond th' example of our sires digress,
Their hopes, desires, and purposes estrang’d And claim a right to scamper and run wide.
From things terrestrial, and divinely chang'd, Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy, guide.
Their very language of a kind, that speaks The World and I fortuitously met;
The soul's sure int'rest in the good she seeks, I ow'd a trifle, and have paid the debt;
Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt, She did me wrong, I recompens'd the deed,
As Tully with philosophy once dealt,

And, having struck the balance, now proceed. And in the silent watches of the night,

Perhaps however as some years have pass'd,
And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, Since she and I convers'd together last,
The social walk, or solitary ride,

And I have liv'd recluse, in rural shades,
Keep still the dear companion at their side ? Which seldom a distinct report pervades,
No-shame upon a self-disgracing age,

Great changes and now manners have occurrid, God's work may serve an ape upon a stage And blest reforms, that I have never heard, With such a jest, as fill'd with hellish glee And she may now be as discreet and wise, Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ;

As once absurd in all discerning eyes.
But veneration or respect finds none,

Sobriety perhaps may now be found,
Save from the subjects of that work alone. Where once Intoxication press'd the ground;
The World grown old her deep discernment shows, The subtle and injurious may be just,
Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose,

And he grown chaste, that was the slave of lust; Peruses closely the true Christian's face,

Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss d; And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ; Charity may relax the miser's fist; Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare,

The gamester may have cast his cards away, And finds hypocrisy close lurking there;

Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. And, serving God herself through mere constraint, It has indeed been told me (with what weight, Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state) And yet, God knows, look human nature through, That fables old, that seem'd for ever mute, (And in due time the World shall know it too,) Reviv'd are hast'ning into fresh repute, That since the flow'rs of Eden felt the blast, And gods and goddesses, discarded long That after man's defection laid all waste,

Like useless lumber, or a stroller's song,
Sincerity tow'rds the heart-searching God

Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,
Has made the new-born creature her abode, And Jupiter bids fair to rule again ;
Nor shall be found in unregen’rate souls,

That certain feasts are instituted now.
Till the last fire burn all between the Poles. Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow;
Sincerity! why 'tis his only pride,

That all Olympus through the country roves,
Weak and imperfect in all grace beside,

To consecrate our few remaining groves,
He knows that God demands his heart entire, And Echo learns politely to repeat
And gives him all his just demands require. The praise of names for ages obsolete ;
Without it his pretensions were as vain,

That having prov'd the weakness, it should seem,
As having it he deems the World's disdain ; Of Revelation's ineffectual beam,
That great defect would cost him not alone To bring the passions under sober sway,
Man's favorable judgment, but his own;

And give the moral springs their proper play, His birthright shaken, and no longer clear, They mean to try what may at last be done, Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. By stout substantial gods of wood and stone. Retort the charge, and let the World be told And whether Roman rites may not produce She boasts a confidence she does not hold ;

The virtues of old Rome for English use. That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead May such success attend the pious plan, A cold misgiving, and a killing dread :

May Mercury once more embellish man,

Grace him again with long-forgotten arts,
Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts,

VERSES
Make him athletic as in days of old,
Learn' at the bar, in the palæstra bold,
Divest the rougher sex of female airs,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK,
And teach the softer not to copy theirs :

DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OP
The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught JUAN FERNANDEZ
Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought.
'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus,

I am monarch of all I survey,
For us plain folks, and all who side with us,

My right there is none to dispute;
To build our altar, confident and bold,

From the centre all round to the sea,
And say as stern Elijah said of old,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
The strife now stands upon a fair award,

O Solitude! where are the charms
If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord :

That sages have seen in thy face?
If he be silent, faith is all a whim,

Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Then Baal is the God, and worship him.

Than reign in this horrible place.
Digression is so much in modern use,
Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse,

I am out of humanity's reach,
Some never seem so wide of their intent,

I must finish my journey alone,
As when returning to the theme they meant;

Never hear the sweet music of speech,
As mendicants, whose business is to roam,

I start at the sound of my own.
Make ev'ry parish but their own their home.

The beasts, that roam over the plain,
Though such continual zigzags in a book,

My form with indifference see ;
Such drunken reelings, have an awkward look, They are so unacquainted with man,
And I had rather creep to what is true,

Their tameness is shocking to me.
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view;
Yet to consult a little, seem'd no crime,

Society, friendship, and love,
The freakish humor of the present time:

Divinely bestow'd upon man,
But now to gather up what seems dispers'd,

O, had I the wings of a dove,
And touch the subject I design'd at first,

How soon would I taste you again!
May prove, though much beside the rules of art, My sorrows I then might assuage
Best for the public, and my wisest part.

In the ways of religion and truth,
And first let no man charge me, that I mean

Might learn from the wisdom of age,
To close in sable ev'ry social scene,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth
And give good company a face severe,
As if they met around a father's bier ;

Religion ! what treasure untold
For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent,

Resides in that heavenly word!
And laughter all their work, is life misspent,

More precious than silver and gold,
Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply,

Or all that this Earth can afford.
* Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry." But the sound of the church-going bell
To find the medium asks some share of 'wit,

These valleys and rocks never heard,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit :

Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,

Or smil'd when a sabbath appear’d.
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
Whose glory with a light, that never fades,

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op'ning shades, Convey to this desolate shore
And, while it shows the land the soul desires,

Some cordial endearing report
The language of the land she seeks inspires.

of a land, I shall visit no more.
Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure My friends, do they now and then send
Of all that was absurd, profane, impure;

A wish or a thought after me?
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech

O tell me I yet have a friend,
Pursues the course that Truth and Nature teach ; Though a friend I am never to see.
No longer labors merely to produce
The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use :

How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Where'er it winds, the salutary stream,

Compar'd with the speed of its flight,
Sprightly and fresh, enriches ev'ry theme,

The tempest itself lags behind,
While all the happy man possess'd before,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.
The gift of Nature, or the classic store,

When I think of my own native land,
Is made subservient to the grand design

In a moment I seem to be there ;
For which Heav'n formd the faculty divine.

But alas! recollection at hand
So should an idiot, while at large he strays,

Soon hurries me back to despair.
Find the sweet lyre, on which an artist plays,
With rash and awkward force the chord he shakes, But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes ;

The beast is laid down in his lair ;
But let the wise and well-instructed hand

Even here is a season of rest,
Once take the shell beneath his just command,

And I to my cabin repair.
In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd

There's mercy in every place,
Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd,

And mercy, encouraging thought!
Till tun'd at length to some immortal song,

Gives even affliction a grace,
It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours bis praise along. And reconciles man to his lot.

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