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Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial, endearing, report
Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me? 0, tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair. But, the seafowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
ON THE PROMOTION OF
LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND.
ROUND Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
“ See !" with united wonder cried
Th' experienc'd and the sage, Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age !
Proclaim him born to sway,
And bear the palm away.”
He sprang impetuous forth
Attends superior worth.
Ere yet he starts is known,
What all had deem'd his own.
ODE TO PEACE. COME, Peace of mind, delightful guest! Return, and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor pow'r pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view;
We, therefore, need not part. Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From ay’rice and ambition free,
And pleasure's fatal wiles ?
The banquet of thy smiles ?
And wilt thou quit the stream, That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequester'd shed,
To be a guest with them?
For thee I panted, thee I priz'd,
Whate'er I lov'd before :
“ Farewell! we meet no more !"
HUMAN FRAILTY. WEAK and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
Vice seems already slain ;
And it revives again.
Finds out his weaker part;
But Pleasure wins his heart. 'Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his heart we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
And dangers little known,
Man vainly trusts his own.
To reach the distant coast ! The breath of Heav'n must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
THE MODERN PATRIOT.
theme all day;
A little nearer home.
On t'other side th’ Atlantic,
But more so when most frantic.
That man shall be my toast,
Who bravely breaks the most.
The choicest flow'rs she bears,
Your house about your ears.
Though some folks can't endure them,
the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them. rope ! I wish we patriots had Such strings for all who need 'emWhat! hang a man for going mad!
Then, farewell British freedom.
ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE RECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA. Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot!