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“ Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice-
“ And am so clear too of all other vice.”

The Tempter saw his time; the work he ply'd ;
Stocks and Subscriptions pour on ev'ry fide,
Till all the dæmon makes his 'full descent,
In one abundant Mow'r of Cent.


Sinks deep within him, and possess the whole,
Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,
Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a Blessing, now was Wit,
And God's good Providence, a Lucky Hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn:
His Compting-house employed the Sunday morn:
Seldom at Church ('twas such a busy life)
But duly sent his family and wife.
There (so the devil ordain’d) one Christmas tide
My good old Lady catch'd a cold and dy'd.

A nymph of quality admires our Knight,
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the Fair)
The well-bred Cuckolds in St. James's air:
In Britain's Senate he a seat obtains,
And one more penfioner St. Stephen gains.
My Lady falls to play ; so bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The House impeach him, Coningsby harangues ;
The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs,
Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own.
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize ;
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.



FAR in the windings of a vale,

Faft by a fhélt'ring wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,

A humble cottage stood.
There beauteous EMMA flourish'd fair

Beneath a mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now

To see her bleft, and die.

The softest blash that Nature spreads,

Gave colour to her cheek;
Such orient coloor smiles thro' heaven

When May's sweet mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn

The charmer of the plains ;
That sun which bids their di'mond blaze,

To deck our lily deigns.

Long had the fir'd each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair ; And tho' by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not the was fair.

Till EDWIN came, the pride of fwains,

A soul that knew no art,
And from whose eyes ferenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual

A mutual flame was quickly caught,

Was quickly too reveal'd; Nor neither bosom lodg'd a wish

Which Virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of heart-felt bliss

Did love on both bestow !
But bliss too mighty long to last,

Where Fortune proves a foe.

His fifter, who like Envy form’d,

Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm, with wicked skill

Each darker art employ'd.

The father too, a sordid man,

Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the rock

From whence his riches grew.

Long had he feen their mutual flame,

And seen it long unmovid;
Then, with a father's frown at last,

He sternly disapprov'd.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war

Of differing paffions ftrove;
His heart, which durft not disobey,

Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd her fight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept,


To snatch a glance, to mark the spot

Where EMMA walk'd and wept.

Oft too in Stanemore's wint'ry waste,

Beneath the moonlight fade, In fighs to pour his soften’d foul.

The midnight mourner Atray'd.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd,

A deadly pale o'ercaft;
So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now,

with late remorse, Hung o'er his dying bed, And weary'd Heav'n with fruitless pray'rs,

And fruitless forrows shed.

'Tis paft, he cry'd, but if your souls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold

What they must ever love.

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,

And bath'd with many a tear ; First falling o'er the primrose pale

So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care,

(A cruel filter she !) Forbad what Emma came to say, My Edwin ! live for me.

Now homeward as the hopeless went,

The churchyard path along,
· The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd

Her lover's fun'ral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found
In ev'ry bush his hov'ring shade,

His groan in ev'ry sound.

- Alone, appallid, thus had the pass’d

The visi’nary vale,
When, lo ! the death-bell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale.

Just then she reach'd with trembling steps,

Her aged mother's door!
He's gone, she cried, and I must see

That angel face no more !

I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my fide :
From her white arm down funk her head,

She shiver'd, fighed, and died !



Tis lit’ning fear, and dumb amazement all :
When to the startled eye the sudden glance
Appears far south, eruptive thro' the cloud ;


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