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Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldit softly fpeak, and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one with bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.--
But no—what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound fpirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coaft
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened ifle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons (mile,
There fits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with fails how swift! haft reached the shore,
“ Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar*,"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since, has anchored at thy fide.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed
Me howling winds drive devious, tempeft toffed,
Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass loft,
And day by day fome current's thwarting force
Sets me more diftant from a prosperous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell-time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not fought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the fin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic shew of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
A PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
A Stranger's purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not io praise.
To give the creature her Creator's due
Were fin in me, and an offerice to you.
From man to man, or ev'n to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use designed,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.
The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; No traveller ever reached that bleft abode, Who found not thorns and briars in his road. The world may dance along the flowery plain, Cheered as they go by many a sprightly strairi,
Where Nature has her moffy velvet spread, With unshod feet they yet securely tread, Admonished, scorn the caution and the friend, Bent upon pleasure, heedless of its end. But he, who knew what human hearts would prove, How flow to learn the dictates of his love, That hard by nature and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, În pity to the finners he designed To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Called for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, “ go spend them in the vale of tears." Oh balmy gales of foul-reviving air, Oh falutary streams that murmur there, These flowing from the fount of grace above, Those breathed from lips of everlasting love ! The flinty foil indeed their feet annoys, And sudden sorrow nips their springing joys, An envious world will interpose its frown To mar delights fuperior to its own, And many a pang, experienced still within, Reminds them of their hated inmate, fin; . But ills of every shape and every name Transformed to blessings miss their cruel aim, And every moment's calm, that sooths the breast, Is given in earneft of eternal reft.
Ah, be not fad, although thy lot be caft Far from the flock, and in a diftant waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd is for ever near ; Thy tender sorrrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine'Twas thus in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.