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Though taste, though genius bless

To some divine excefs, Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole;

What each, what all supply,

May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul !

Of these let others ask,

To aid some mighty task,
I only seek to find thy temp’rate vale:

Where oft my reed might found
To maids and

shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O nature! learn my tale.

DELIA.

WHEN DELIA on the plain appears,

Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er fhe speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear;
No other wit but her's approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If the some other swain commend,
Tho' I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, the shadieft grove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ?
When fond of pow'r, of beauty vain,
Her nets the spreads for ev'ry swain,
I ftrove to hate, but vainly strove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

THE RIVER AVON. THOU soft flowing Avon, by thy filter stream, Of things more than mortalsweet SH AKSPEARE

would dream; The fairies by moon- -- light dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is, which pillow'd his head. The love-stricken maiden, the soft-lighing swain, Here rove without danger, and figh without pain. The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread, For hallow'd the turf is, which pillow'd his head. Here youth shall be fam'd for their love and their

truth, And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth; For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hallow'd the turf is, which pillow'd his head. Flow on, filver Avon, in fong ever flow, Be the swans on thy borders Itill whiter than snow! Ever full be thy stream, like his fame may it spread, And the turf ever hallow'd, which pillow'd his head.

THE

COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR-SELLER. A FELLOW in a market town,

Most musical, cry'd razors up and down, And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seem'd wond'rous cheap, And for the money, quite a heap,

As ev'ry man wou'd buy, with cash and sense. A country-bumpkin the great offer heard : Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,

That seem'd a shoe-brush ituck beneath his nose, With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers said,

“ This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

wry faces,

* No matter if the fellow be a knave, - Provided that the razors save;

“ It certainly will be a monstrous prize:” So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart, and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
HODGE now began with grinning pain to grub,

Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor !—then the rest he try'd-
All were impostors—" Ah !" HODGE figh’d!

“ I wish the eighteen-pence within my purse.” In vain to chace his beard, and bring the graces,

Hecut, and dug,and winc'd,and stamp'd andswore: Brought blood, and danc'd, blafphem'd, and made

And curs’d each razor's body o’er and o’er.
His muzzle, form’d of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;

So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds : Hodge, in a paslion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws,

On the vile cheat that fold the goods.
“ Razors !--a damn'd confounded dog-

“ Not fit to scrape a hog!” Hodge fought the fellow-found him, and begun“ P'rhaps, meafter razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

" That people flay themfelves out of their lives; " You rascal !--for an hour have I been grubbing,

Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, “ With razors just like oyster knives. so Sirrah' I tell you, you're a knave, “ To cry up razors that can't shave. Friend' quoth the razor-man, I'm not a knave:

As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought • That they would mave.'

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“ Not think they'd shave!” quoth HODGE with

wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian vell; “What were they made for then, you dog?” he cries,

• Made!' quoth the fellow, with a smile,– to sell.'

THE PARISH POOR HOUSE. THEIRS is yon house that holds the parish poor,

Whofe walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours flagging play, And the dull wheel hums doleful thro' the day;' There children dwell who know no parent's care ; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood-fears ! The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve; Where the loud groans from some fad chamber flow, Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below: Here forrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man. Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a ligh, And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, opprest by fome fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who.press the downy couch, while flaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with fad prayers the weary doctor teaze To náme the nameless ever-new disease; Who with mock-patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone can cure;

How would you bear in real pain to lie,
Despis’d, neglected, left alone to die?
How would yę bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched paves

the

way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the Noping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud is all that lie between; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch’d, gives way To the rude tempeft, yet excludes the day: Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, Nor promise hope till fickness wears a finile.

THE BEGGAR WOMAN. WHY sounds the plaint of mis’ry in the fireet ?

One gentle bofom only heaves a figh; Unfeeling AV’RICE frowns and passes by : 'Tis false, the miscreant thinkstis all deceit; The wily trader, wrapp'd in schemes of lure,

Heeds not the groan long-ling’ring on the air ; While GREATNESS. stoops not, from his feat fecure,

To view affliction he will never share. Woman of want, thy hand is stretch'd in vain ! Pity from that cold heart thou can'ît not ftrain ; Vain tears bedew thy forrow-wafted cheek; Forc'd from thy famih'd babe, the fearful-Ihriek Is nothing; fight like thine, fo woe-begone, Should not be seen, nor heard thy pit’ous moan, Where pomp, luxur'ous eafe, and purple pride, And mirth, repos’d on downy beds, reside. Spoil not the poor and thoughtless merriment; Go! hug thy griefs at home and fiarve content !

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