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Thus hand in hand through life we'll go;
Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.
While Conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,

And cheer our dying breath:
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,

And smoothe the bed of death.
CLXX. SAMUEL BOYSE, 1708--1749.



O blest Redeemer ! from thy sacred throne, Where saints and angels sing thy triumphs won! (Where from the grave thou

raised thy glorious head, Chain’d to thy car the powers infernal led) From that exalted height of bliss supreme, Look down on those who bear thy sacred name; Restore their ways, inspire them by thy grace, Thy laws to follow, and thy steps to trace ; Thy bright example to thy doctrine join, And by their morals prove their faith divine !

Nor only to thy church confine thy ray;
O'er the glad world thy healing light display ;
Fair sun of righteousness ! in beauty rise,
And clear the mists that cloud the mental skies
To Judah’s remnant, now a scatter'd train,
Oh great Messiah ! show thy promised reign ;
O’er earth as wide thy saving warmth diffuse,
As spreads the ambient air, or falling dews,
And haste the time when, vanquish'd by thy power
Death shall expire, and sin defile no more.

In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand:

To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign,
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine;
Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows,
His smile alone security bestows;
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower,
Claim leads to claim, and power


power ;
Till conquest, unresisted, ceased to please,
And rights submitted left him none to seize.
At length his sovereign frowns—the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;
Now drops at once the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glittering plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liveried army, and the menial lord.

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride,
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide;
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love, o'er fear extends his wide domain,
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain ;
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,
And one capitulate and one resign ;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain.
“ Think nothing gained,” he cries, “till nought remain,
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky.”

The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast:
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost:
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay :---
Hid, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day!
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
and shows his miseries in distant lands;

Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose and slaves debate.

But did not chance at length her error mend !
Did no subverted empire mark his end ?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ?
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left a name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.


When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;
Through all his veins the fever of renown
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown,
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head.
Are these thy views ? Proceed, illustrious youth,
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth!
Yet, should thy soul indulge the generous heat,
Till captive science yields her last retreat,
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty doubt resistless day;
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright;
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain,
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain :
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart;
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade;
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free,
Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee :
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,

pause awhile from letters to be wise ;
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail,
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust.

If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,

Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end. CLXXII. GEO. LORD LYTTLETON, 1709-1773.

1. THE FRENCI. A nation here I pity and admire, Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire, Yet taught by custom's force, and bigot fear, To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they bear; Whose nobles born to cringe, and to command, In courts a mean, in camps a gen'rous band; From each low tool of power content receive Those laws their dreaded arms to Europe give. Whose people vain in want, in bondage blest, Though plunder'd, gay: industrious, though oppress'd With happy follies rise above their fate, The jest and envy of each wiser state.

2. LOVE AND HOPE. None without hope e'er loved the brightest fair, But love can hope where reason would despair.

3. BEAUX AND BELLES. Where none admire, 'tis useless to excel, Where none are beaux, 'tis vain to be a belle. CLXXIII. JOHN ARMSTRONG, 1709-1779

EXERCISE. Toil and be strong. Some love the manly foils; The tennis some; and some the graceful dance; Others, more hardy, range the purple heath Or naked stubble, where from field to field The sounding coveys urge their labouring flight; Eager amid the rising cloud to pour The gun's unerring thunder: and there are Whom still the meed of the green archer charms But if through genuine tenderness of heart, Or secret want of relish for the game, You shun the glories of the chase, nor care To haunt the peopled stream, the garden yielde A soft amusement, a humane delight.




To raise the insipid nature of the ground,
Or tame its savage genius to the grace
Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems
The amiable result of happy chance,
Is to create, and give a godly joy,
Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain
To check the lawless riot of the trees,
To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould.

Thrice happy days ! in rural labours past :
Blest winter nights ! when, as the genial fire
Cheers the old hall, bis cordial family
With soft domestic arts the hours beguile,
And pleasing talk that starts no timorous game,
With witless wantonness to hunt it down :
Or through the fairy-land of tale or song
Delighted wander, in fictitious fates
Engaged, and all that strikes humanity;
Till, lost in fable, they the stealing hour
Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve,
His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid
His festal roof; while o'er the light repast
And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy;
And through the maze of conversation trace
Whate'er amuses or improves the mind.

PROLOGUE TO LILLO'S ELMERIO. No labour'd scenes to-night adorn our stage, Lillo's plain sense would here the heart engage. He knew no art, no rule ; but warmly thought From passion's force, and, as he felt, he wrote. His Barnwell once no critic's test could bear, Yet from each eye still draws the natural tear. With generous candour hear his latest strains, And let kind pity shelter his remains. Deprest by want, afflicted by disease, Dying he wrote, and dying wished to please. Oh, may that wish be now humanely paid, And no harsh critic vex his gentle shade. " "Tis yours his unsupported fame to save, And bid one laurel grace his humble grave.

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