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Search, with thy more than mortal eye,
The breafts of all thy friends: descry
What there has got poffeffion.

See if thy unfufpecting heart

In fome for truth mistook not art,
For principle, profeffion.

From thefe, the pefts of human kind,
Whom royal bounty cannot bind,

Protect our parent King :

Unmak their treach'ry to his fight,

Drag forth the vipers into light,

And crush them ere they fting.

If fuch his truft and honours fhare,
Again exert thy guardian care,

Each venom'd heart difclofe;

On Ilim, on Him, our all depends,

Oh fave him from his treach'rous friends,

He cannot fear his foes.

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Whoe'er fhall at the helm prefide,

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Still let thy prudence be his guide,

To ftain the troubled wave;

But chiefly whisper in his ear,

"That GEORGE is open, juft, fincere,

"And dares to fcorn a knave."

go

No selfish views t' opprefs mankind,
No mad ambition fir'd thy mind,

To purchase fame with blood;

Thy bofom glow'd with purer heat;
Convinc'd that to be truly great
Is only to be good.

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To hear no lawless paffion's call,
To serve thy King, yet feel for all,

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Unite, ye kindred fons of worth;
Strangle bold faction in its birth;

Be Britain's weal your view!
For this great end let all combine,
Let virtue link each fair defign,
And Pelham live in you.

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AD AMICOS.

BY RICHARD WEST, ESQ."

YES happy youths, on Camus' fedgy fide,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the antient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise, the genius, or the heart to mend ;
Now pleas'd along the cloyster'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where focial oft, and oft alone, ye chufe
To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse.
Mean time at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r that comes or foon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;

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* Born 1716; dyed 1742. This poem is in imitation of the 5th Elegy of the 3d book of Tibullus, and of a letter of Mr. Pope, in fickness, to Mr. Steel. "Almost all Tibullus's Elegy," Mr. Mafon obferves," is imitated in this little piece, from whence the tranfition to Mr. Popes letter is very artfully contrived, and bespeaks a degree of judgment much beyond Mr. Weft's years." It was written before 21. The reader may compare this with another imitation of the fame elegy by Mr. Hammond. (See p. 35.)

From you remote, methinks, alone I stand
Like fome fad exile in a defert land;

Around no friends their lenient care to join

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In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the funshine of my days;

To fickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rofy face away.

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Juft heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to bloom, Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?

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Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd❜rous knife?
Did e'er this tongue the flanderer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?

Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,

Or know a thought but all the world might know? 30
As yet juft ftarted from the lifts of time,
My growing years have fcarcely told their prime;
Ufelefs, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tafted, and few duties done.
Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing funs appear, 35
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude clufter from the mourning spray.
Stern Power of Fate, whofe ebon fceptre rules
The Stygian deferts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rafhly fmite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;

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Ah, ftay till age shall blaft my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow, 45
And to the dead my willing fhade shall go.

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How weak is Man to Reafon's judging eye! Born in this moment, in the next we die ; Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire, Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire. In vain our plans of happiness we raise, Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ; Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne, Are what the wife would fear to call their own. Health is at best a vain precarious thing, And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing; 'Tis like the ftream, befide whofe wat❜ry bed Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head, Nurs'd by the wave the spreading branches rise, Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies; 60 The waves the while beneath in fecret flow, And undermine the hollow bank below; Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey. Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride, And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

But why repine, does life deserve my figh?
Few will lament my lofs whene'er I die.
For those the wretches I despise or hate,

neither envy nor regard their fate.

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