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MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.
LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's
tomb, But happiest they who win the world to come: Believers have a silent field to fight, And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. They, in some nook, where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell; Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.
ON MR. HAMILTON.' Pause here, and think : a monitory rhyme Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.
Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ; Seems it to say, Health here has long to reign?' Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh? Yet fear. Youth ofttimes, healthful and at ease, Anticipates a day it never sees; And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud Exclaims, Prepare thee for an early shroud.'
claim. No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chaseYe squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, Your haunts no longer echo to his voice; This record of his fate exulting view, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
• Yes (the indignant shade of Fop replies) And worn with vain pursuit Man also dies.'
ON A HARE.
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo, Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare. Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite,
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw ; Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play,
I kept him for his humour's sake;
For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
AN EPISTLE TO THE REV. W. BULL.
From which no care can save,
Must soon partake his grave.
EPISTLE TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
If reading verse be your delight,
286 AN EPISTLE TO THE REV. W. BULL.
So seldom sought by invocation,
Oh Nymph of Transatlantic fame,
* On one of his visits to the poet, Mr. Ball bad accidentally left his box behind him, filled with Oroonoko tobacco.