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When Israel's host, with all their stores,
Past through the ruby-tinctur'd crystal shores,
Then persecution rag'd in Heaven's own cause,
Where'er his legions chanc'd to stray,
[hate. Immoderate was their rage, for mortal was their
But wben the King of Righteousness arose,
And on the illumin'd east serenely smil'd,
He bade war's hellish clangor cease,
In pastoral simplicity and peace,
Well hast thou, Webster, pictur'd Christian love,
And copied our Master's fair design; But livid envy would the light remove,
Or crowd thy portrait in a nook malignThe muse shall hold it up to popular view— Where the more candid and judicious few
Shall think the bright original they see, The likeness nobly lost in the identity.
Oh, hadst thou liv'd in better days than these,
Ere to excel by all was deem'd a shame! Alas! thou hast no modern arts to please,
And to deserve is all thy empty claim.
Else thou’dst been plac'd, by learning, and by wit, There, where thy dignified inferiors sit
Oh, they are in their generations wise ; Each path of interest they have sagely trod
To live-to thrive-to rise-and still to rise Better to bow to men, than kneel to God.
Behold, where poor unmansion'd Merit stands,
All cold and cramp'd with penury and pain ; Speechless, through want, she rears the’ imploring
“ Away (they cry), we never saw thy name
Or in preferment's list, or that of fame ; Away-not here the fate thou earn'st bewail, Who can’st not buy a vote, nor hast a soul for sale."
Ob, indignation! wherefore wert thou given,
If drowsy patience deaden all thy rage?-
And, Webster, so prescribes thy candid page. Then let us hear thee preach, seraphic love,
Guide our disgusted thoughts to things above; So our free souls, fed with divine repast,
(Unmindful of low mortals' mean employ) Shall taste the present, recollect the past,
And strongly hope for every future joy.
OR, A HYMN FOR THE HAY-MAKERS.
Quinetiam Gallum noctem explaudentibus alis
Brisk Chanticleer bis matins had begun,
And broke the silence of the night, And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy sun,
And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous light; Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms run. Strong labour got up-with his pipe in his mouth,
He stoutly strode over the dale ; He lent new perfumes to the breath of the south;
On his back hung his wallet and fail,
“ Now the rural graces three
The abbey-bells in wakening rounds
The warning peal has given ;
Her morning hymn to Heaven.
All alive o'er the lawn,
The little lambkins play,
Come, my mates, let us work,
And all hands to the fork,
So fine is the day,
And so fragrant the hay,
Our voices let's raise
In Phæbus's praise,
Our musical words
Shall be join'd by the birds,
OR, THE MOWERS AT DINNER.
“Jam pastor umbras cum grege languido,
Dumeta Silvani ; caretque
The sun is now radiant to behold,
And short, but yet distinct and clear;
To the wanton whistling air ;
Fat mirth and gallantry the gay,