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TRIBUTE

To the memory of a deceased Friend.

MORTAL, from yon lower sphere,
Ere eternal joys thou share,
Are thy earthly duties done,
Husband, father, friend, and son?

Hast thou o'er a parent's head
Drops of filial fondness shed ?
What, the pleasure hast thou prov'd,
'Tis to love, and be belov'd?

Hast thou, with delighted eyes,
Seen thy num'rous offspring rise?
Hast thou in the paths of truth
Led their inexperienc'd youth?

Did'st thou e'er in sadness bend
O'er the sorrows of a friend?
Did'st thou hasten, unappall'd,
When thy sinking country call'd?

Husband, father, friend, and son,
Well thy journey hast thou run;
Life has known its best employ,
Sown in virtue, reap'd in joy.

EPITAPH ON A CLERGYMAN.

LAMENTED shade, if in the silent grave
The sound of human voice was ever heard;
Or, if the gates of death fast barr'd not out
All lovely converse with our friends on earth;
How loudly would'st thou hear thy loss bewail'd;
How gently would the notes of well-earn'd praise
Sooth thy departed spirit, and cheer thy soul
With the sweet solace that reflection draws
From a long train of goodly, virtuous deeds,
That ran in quick succession on: till when
That awful despot of the human race
Stopp'd their career, and humbled to the dust
No trembling sinner, but a fearless mind,
Arm'd with the shield of conscious rectitude,
By all lamented, as by all rever'd.

And while I twine the mournful cypress wreath,
Wet with thy widow's and thy children's tears,
Around thy hallow'd bier, with filial care,
I mingle ivy flow'rs, that, while alive,
Bloom'd with such classic lustre on thy brow.
Ye flocks, whose great salvation was his pride,
Hither repair, and o'er your shepherd's tomb
Shed grateful tears of woe, for, in his death
You've lost a sacred minister of truth,

Who taught you well, and what he taught believ'd.

Collection of Epitaphs.

TO THE GLOW-WORM.

GEM of this lone and silent vale,
Treasure of ev'ning's pensive hour,
I come thy modest light to hail!

I come a votive strain to pour :
Nor chilly dews, nor paths untrod,
Can from thy shrine my footsteps fright:
Thy lamp shall guide me o'er the sod,
And cheer the gath'ring mists of night.
Again thy yellow fire impart !-

Lo, planets shed a mimic day!
Lo, vivid meteors round me dart!

On western clouds red lightnings play!
But vain these splendid fires to me,
Borne on the season's sultry wing,
Unless thy slender form I see
Around its fairy lustre fling.
Thine is an unobtrusive blaze;

Content art thou in shades to shine;
And much I wish, while thus I gaze,
To make thy modest merit mine;
For long by youth's wild wishes cast
On the false world's tempestuous sea,

I seek retirement's shore at last,

And find a monitor in thee.

County Magazine.

ODE TO CHARITY.

THOU! whose eye of smiling love Outshines the regent of the day; Whose bosom no rude tumults move,

Whose form no pencil can portray; So bright thine eye, thy form so fair, Beauty herself seems station'd there.

Hail, Charity! thou fairest, best,
Adorn'd with virtue's peerless crown:
And wont, array'd in simple vest,

To beam with lustre of thine own.
Still let thy breast with rapture glow,
But spare a sigh for human woe.

Sweeter thy breath than gales that play

Where summer flow'rs their odours fling;

Nor is so soft the voice of May,

With all the choir of tuneful spring; The smile, that on thy cheek is seen,

Bespeaks a paradise within.

Oh! still thy sacred form display ;
Near thee a balm shall sorrow find;

Still, like the golden orb of day,
Reign the warm friend of human kind!
And let thine hand to all impart,
Fair emblems of an open heart.

Ibid.

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ODE TO MR. PACKWOOD.

COME, muse, and seize the trump of fame,
To sing great Packwood's growing name,
No king deserves it louder-

Then swell your deep sonorous voice,
To him who mortals bids rejoice;
And seek his strap and powder!

Oh! had'st thou flourish'd in an age,

When ev'ry hero, saint, and sage,
Like modern Psalmanazor,

Their hairy honours wore at length,
And ev'ry beard was gaining strength,
For want of patent razor!

Then Barbarossa's fiery chin,

And Blue-beard's, so renown'd in sin,
Had been as smooth as satin;
And odes that only now are sung
To praise thee in thy mother tongue,
Had then been made in latin.

No more shall love-lorn Damon seek
The dimples of his Chloe's cheek,

With beard like Neb'chadnazzar-
Since once he's had the lucky hap,
On Packwood's wond'rous chemic strap
To whet his dullest razor.

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