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THE WISH.

Br MERRICK.

How fhort is life's uncertain space !

Alas! how quickly done!

How swift the wild precarious chase!
And yet how difficult the race,
How very hard to run!

:

Youth ftops at firft its wilful ears

To wifdom's prudent voice;

Till now arriv'd to riper years,

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Experienced age, worn out with cares,
Repents its earlier choice.

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What though its prospects now appear
So pleasing and refin'd;

Yet groundlefs hope, and anxious fear,
By turns the bufy moments fhare,
And prey upon the mind.

Since then falfe joys our fancy cheat
With hopes of real bliss;

Ye guardian powr's that rule my fate,

The only wish that I create,

Is all compriz'd in this:

May I through life's uncertain tide,
Be ftill from pain exempt;

May all my wants be still supply'd,
My state too low t'admit of pride,
And yet above contempt.

But should your providence divine
A greater blifs intend;

May all those bleffings you design,
(If e'er thofe bleffings thall be mine)
Be center'd in a Friend.

ODE

WRITTEN IN THE WALKS AT BRECKNOCK

TO DR. SQUIRE, LD. BISHOP OF ST. DAVID'S.

BY DR. DODD.

I.

RUDE romantic fhades and woods,
Hanging walks and falling floods!
Now that gufh with foaming pride
Down the rough rock's steepy fide;
Now that o'er the pebbles play,
Winding round your filver way:

Mountains, that in dusky cloud

High your facred fummits fhroud;

Whofe variegated fides adorn

-Fields, and flocks, and groves, and corn,
And whited cots, befide the steep,
Where health and labour fweetly sleep;
Hail pleafing fcenes! Amyntas cry'd,

*

As by old Hundy's gurgling fide,

In careless fort his limbs he laid,

The hoar hill hanging o'er his head.

His harp of ancient British found lay by; He feiz'd it rapturous: o'er the ftrings

His fingers lightly fly,

While thus his voice refponfive fings.

¡II.

From that celeftial orb, where, thron'd in light, Thou dwell'ft, of powers angelic first and best; Oh lovely gratitude! divinely bright,

Defcend, in all thy glowing beauties drest.

Goddefs come, and oh! impart

All thy ardours to my heart;

Tune my harp, and touch my tongue,

Give me melody and fong:

Softeft notes and numbers bring,

'Tis Palemon that I fing:

Gratitude exalts my lays,

'Tis my benefactor's praife.

A river which runs by Brecknock.

III.

But where can or numbers, or notes,
Sufficiently pleafing be found,

To exprefs the due fenfe of his worth,

Who my life with fuch comforts hath crown'd.
He mark'd the fmall flock which I fed,
And my diligence gave him delight;
Young thepherd I'll help you, he said,

And he plac'd me still nearer his fight.
Then he gave me some sheep of my own,
Oh could I the charge but improve!
'Twould fhew how I honour'd his gift,
And would I could merit his love!

But fooner this brook at my feet

Shall ceafe in foft murmurs to flow;
These mountains fhall fooner fink down
To a plain with the vallies below;
Than mute to his praises, my tongue
Shall ceafe his lov'd name to refound,
Or my heart to his favours fo priz❜d,
Be ever infenfible found.

Oh may the great Shepherd of all

His life with rich bleffings increase!

And fweetly encompass him round

With plenty, with health, and with peace.

On all that partake of his board

Be happiness largely beftow'd;

His wife be ftill loving and kind;
His children ftill lovely and good!
And----pafs'd his benevolent days
'Midft elegant labours of love!
Oh late, ye good angels, his foul

To the feats of the bleffed remove!
Thus Amyntas fung pleafs'd to his harp,
With Brecon's white walls in his view:
Many poets much fweeter you'll find;

No poet more honeft and true.

Bishop Squire, made him Prebend of Brecon, May 1764.

E L E G Y.

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-Y AR D..

BY GRAY..

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;;

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