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Here, wrapt in studious thought, let Fancy rove,
Still prompt to mark Suspicion's secret snares
To see where Anguish nips the bloom of Love,
Or trace proud Grandeur to the domes of


Should e'er Ambition's tow'ring hopes inflame,
Let judging Reason draw the veil aside ;
Or, fir'd. with envy at some mighty name,
Read o'er the monument that tells-He died.

What are the ensigns of imperial sway?
What, all that Fortune's lib’ral hand has brought?
Teach they the voice to pour a sweeter lay,
Or rouse the soul to more exalted thought?

When bleeds the heart as Genius blooms unknown? When melts the eye o’er Virtue’s mo!ırnful bier ? Not wealth, but pity, swells the bursting groan; Not pow'r, but whispering Nature, prompts the Say, gentle mourner, in yon mouldy vault, Where the worm fattens on some sceptred brow, Beneath that roof with sculptur’d marble fraught, Why sleeps unmov'd the breathless dust below?


Sleeps it more sweetly than the simple swain Beneath some mossy turf that rests his head; Where the lone widow tells the night her pain, And eve with dewy tears embalms the dead?

The lily, screen'd from ev'ry ruder gale,
Courts not the cultur'd spot where roses spring;
But blows neglected in the peaceful vale,
And. scents the zephyr’s balmy-breathing wing.

The busts of grandeur, and the pomp of pow'r,
Can these bid Sorrow's gushing tears subside ?
Can these avail in that tremendous hour,
When Death's cold band congeals the purple


Ah no! the mighty names are heard no more: Pride's thought sublime, and Beauty's kindling

bloom, Serve but to sport one flying moment o’er, And swell with pompous verse th' escutcheon'd


For me-may Passion ne'er my soul invade,
Nor be the whims of tow'ring Frenzy giv'n;
LetWealth ne'er court me from the peaceful shade
Where Contemplation wings the soul to Heaven!

Oh guard me safe from Joy's enticing snare! With each extreme that Pleasure tries to hide, The poison'd breath of slow-consuming Care, The noise of Folly, and the dreams of Pride.

But oft, when midnight's sadly solemn knell Sounds long and distant from the sky-topt tow'r, Calm let me sit in Prosper's lonely cell,* . Or walk with Milton through the dark obscure.

See Shakespeare's Tempest.

Thus, when the transient dream of life is filed, May some sad friend recall the former years; Then, stretch'd in silence o'er my dusty bed, Pour the warm gush of sympathetic tears!



“ CONSCIENCE has nought to say to Trade," Says SLANDER—happy to degrade.

I'll prove it otherwisc, by good old Turale, Great in the annals of good Beer; An ocean too, the Brewer's sphere,

Himself the master—the important whale.

I own that consciences are ninnies ;
Dupes unto fascinating guineas;

Indeed, so 'witching are their splendid faces !
Shillings, and pence too, let me say,
Can lead some consciences astray,

For these are not without their winning graces.

Now for my tale.— The Drayman Mat,
Wishing to peep into the vat,

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