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Damp fell the dew, the wind blew cold,
All bleak the barren moor; ·
Knock'd loud at Labour's door.
They stood and stared at Care, But long could not endure the spot,
For Poverty was there.
The Twain proposed next morn to part,
And travel different ways;
Wit went to look for Praise.
“ 'Tis better we agree, '“ Though Love may laugh, and Wit may joke,
“ Yet, friends, take care of me.
“ Without me, Beauty wins no heart,
“ Without me, Wit is vain; “ If head-strong here, with me you part,
« We ne'er can meet again. “ Of me, you both should take great care,
“ And shun the rambling plan, “ No calling back, my friends, I'll bear,
“ So keep me while you can."
Love stopt among the village youth,
Expecting to be crown'd, Enquiring for her brother Truth,
But Truth was never found. She sought in vain, for Love was blind,
And Hate her guidance crost'; Tis said, since Truth she cannot find,
That Love herself is lost.
Condemn'd to hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blast, or slow decline,
Our social comforts'drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend; Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affections' eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind, Nor, letter'd ignorance deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.
When fainting nature callid for aid,
And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow, His vig'rous remedy display'd,
The power of art, without the show.
In mis'ry's darkest caverns known,
His liseful care was ever nigh; Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay ;
No petty gain disdain’d by pride : The modest wants of ev'ry day
The toil of ev'ry day supply'd.
His virtues walk’d their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the eternal Master found
The single talent well employ’d.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no throb of fiery pain, '
No cold gradations of decay; Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
FRIENDSHIP, peculiar boon of Heaven,
The noble minds' delight and pride, To men and Angels only given,
To all the lower world denied.
While Love, unknown among the blest,
Parent of thousand wild desires,
Torments alike with raging fires.
Around the favourites of the sky.
On fools and villains ne'er descend : In vain fort hee the tyrant sighs,
And hugs a flatterer for a friend