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Then may oft such dreams return,
When in mutual fires we burn;
Till our hands and hearts shall join,
And I shall ever call her mine!

A Hymn on 1 Chron. xvii. 16. And David the King

came, and sat before the Lord, and said, Who am I, O Lord God, and what is mine House, that thou hast brought me hitherto?

LORD! in this last concluding eve,

Thy name I will adore;
Who, to my many years of life

hast added more.

One year

Nor life alone, but health, and strength

Thro' all the indulgent year: And liberty, than life itself

To me more justly dear.

Thy bounty has with richest store,

My table daily spread :
Richly am I, or kindlier, Lord,

With food convenient fed.

And when the timely hours of sleep

To needful rest invite; Thou dost my peaceful slumbers watch,

And guard me every night.

When distant friends secure I reach'd,

Thy Providence I own;
Whilst in infected towns I lodg'd,

And travel'd roads unknown.

In deaths and dangers, every place
Did health and


afford : Safe I went out, and safe return'd,

For thou went with me, Lord !

Oh! may thy presence guard me still,

And guide in all my ways ;
For in the midst of snares I walk,

And tread a dangerous maze.

And whilst our errors, Lord, and all

Thy mercies I review :
I wonder--and adore the grace

That brought me hitherto !



Harry Carey, for by that name he is better known, was

the author of Chrononhotonthologos, and of the satires which fixed upon Ambrose Philips the nickname of Namby-Pamby. Though a musician by profession, he hated and ridiculed the absurdity of the Italian Opera, on which he wrote a burlesque, called the Dragon of Wantly, and afterwards a sequel called the Dragoness, which his friend John Frederick Lampe set to musick, and did them both justice. The popular ballad of “ Sally in our Alley” is his, and was composed by him in consequence of overhearing the courtship of two young persons in humble life, while walking in the fields. The simplicity and nature that is in it will ever entitle it to favour. Carey had the rare merit of regarding decency, though he was a humourist and a song-writer. His life was led without reproach, but it was unfortunate, and he died by his own hands,

A Satyr on the Luxury and Effeminacy of the Age. BRITONS ! for shame, give all these follies o'er, Your antient native nobleness restore :

Learn to be manly, learn to be sincere,
And let the world a Briton's name reyere.
Let not my countrymen become the sport,
And ridicule of every foreign court;
But let them well of men and things discern,
Their virtues follow, not their vices learn.

Where is the noble race of British youth,
Whose ornaments were wisdom, learning, truth?
Who, e'er they travell’d, laid a good foundation
Of liberal arts, of manly education ;
Nor went, as some go now, a scandal to their

Who travel only to corrupt the mind;
Import the bad, and leave the good behind.

To learning, and to manly arts estranged,
(As if with women sexes they'd exchanged)
They look like females, dressed in boys' attire,
Or Salmon's waxwork babies, propp'd by wire :
And, if a brace of powdered coxcombs meet,
They kiss and slabber in the open street.
Curse on this damn'd, Italian pathic mode,
To Sodom and to Hell the ready road !
May they when next they kiss, together grow,
And never after separation know.

Our petits maitres now are so polite,
They think it ungenteel to read or write :
Learning with them is a most heinous sin,
Whose only study is to dress, and grin,
To visit, to drink tea, gallant a fan,
And every foolery below a man.
Powder'd and gumm'd the plaister'd fop appears,
The monkey's tail hangs 'twixt the ass's ears,
Just emblem of the empty apish prig,
Who has more grin than grace, less wit than wig:
'Stead of a sword, their persons to secure
They wear a bodkin rather, or a skewer ;
But with a tossil of prodigious make,
To shew they wear the weapon for the top-knot's


Saucy and pert, abrupt, presumptive, loud,
These shadows triumph o’er the vulgar crowd;
But let a man of sense and soul appear,
They fly before him like the timorous deer :
For, be they ne'er so healthy or so young,
Their courage only lies upon their tongue.

'They talk not of our army, oi our fleet,
But of the warble of Cuzzoni sweet,
Of the delicious pipe of Senesino,
And of the squalling trull of Harlequino;

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