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Chill, dark, aloné, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem’d the dole was o'er :
But wot ye well his harder lot ?
His seely back the bunch had got

Which Edwin lost afore.

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared ;
She softly stroak’d my youngling head;

And when the tale was done, “ Thus some are born, my son,” she cries, “With base impediments to rise,

“ And some are born with none.

“ But Virtue can itself advance
To what the fav’rite fools of Chance

“ By Fortune seem design’d;
“ Virtue can gain the odds of Fate,
“ And from itself shake off the weight

“Upon th' unworthy mind.”

On THROWING BY an OLD BLACK COAT.

BY T. COOMBE, D. D.

OLD friend, farewell, with whom full many

a day,
In varied mirth and grief, hath rolld away,
No more thy form retains its sable dye,
But, like grey beauty, palls upon the eye:
Yet shall the grateful Muse her off’ring pay,
Torn tho' thou art, and hast ning to decay,
T'is her's the old coat's sneering foes to face,
Recall its worth, and dignify disgrace.

Health to the man, unmov'd by vulgar ends, Who, rais'd himself, forgets not ancient friends. Such, PAUL, wert thou, who, midst a venal age, Plac'd high thy cloke in truth's immortal page;

There, screen’d from moths, the hallow'd garb

shall stand, From Troas brought by pastoral command.

Once, wrapt secure within thy woollen folds, I brav'd the summer rains, the winter colds. Fearless of coughs, catarrhs, which Eurus

brings, Or dark NOVEMBER on his vap'ry wings, Whistling a tune, like Cymon in the song, Thro' filthy streets and lanes I trudg’d along, Nor heeded aught the hackney driver's cry, Tho' “ Coach, your Honour,” sounded to the sky.

And shall the Muse to beaux and belles pretend, In better days, I fondly call’d thee friend; . That, screen’d by thee, thro' various toils I past, Enjoy'd the present hour, and hop'd the last; Yet now, when Time hath blanch'd thy rev'rend

hue, Sell thee a slave to yonder hoarse-mouth'd Jew!

Forbid it gratitude, forbid it shame!
That were a deed would blacken Clodio's name.

Thou poor old man, whose brow is streak'd

with care, Stretch'd on the clay-cold earth, thy bosom bare, Had I but half that Clodio's shining store, Thy breast should heave with misery no more. Yet take the scanty pittance I bestow, This coat shall shield thee from the drifting snow,

But ere we part, indulge the moral lay, Hear it, ye fools, who flutter life away; Vain are the proud man's plumes, the rich man's

bags; Mey turn to dust, as BROADCLOTH turns to

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How bright were the blushes of Morn, | How sweet was the song of the Grove, Ere Cynthia thus left me forlorn,

And, frowning, forbade me to love!

My streams I was wont to adore

My flocks bleated music around;
And, shepherds, I lov'd them the more,

Because she was pleas’d with the sound.

Dear Cynthia! Ah, who could behold

A damsel with beauty so blest, Nor wish in his arms to infold :: Such charms as were never possest?

Oh, attend, thou fair cause of my woes! · Oh, refuse not to hear me complain! Thy smile has destroy'd my repose,

And that only can give it again.

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