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BY THOMAS SCOTT.
1 Forbid it, Heav'n, that e'er I eat
The bread of craftiness and wrong, A curse would poison all my meat,
As fatal as the viper's tongue.
I ne'er will raise a poor man's sigh,
His hire shall never swell my store ; I dread the poor man's plaintive cry,
I fear the Father of the Poor.
If I in darkness (base misdeed!)
Assassinate my neighbour's fame ;
Ah! no; let me with strong delight
To all the tax of duty pay; Tender of ev'ry social right,
Revering thy all-righteous sway.
Such virtue thou wilt ne'er forget,
In worlds where ev'ry virtue shares High recompence; tho' not of debt,
But which thy bounteous grace prepares.
BY THOMAS SCOTT.
How high our sanguine hopes we raise !
How botly our desires pursue What fancy's magic glass displays
Enlarg'd and tempting to the view! These mortal objects of our love
Too closely twine about our heart, Seduce our souls from things above,
And hardly leave to God a part.
2 O bitter change! when Heav'n's kind hand
Snatches the fatal joy away, Our feeble reason scarce can stand Firm in affliction's stormy day.
We weep, we laugh, in mad extreme ;
Here, all delight; all sadness there: Now on the mount of bliss we seem,
Now in the quagmire of despair.
3 Stoics, who on your strength presume,
Could all your toiling wisdom find A light to cheer affliction’s gloom,
A balsam for the wounded mind :
In vain you hail him good and great,
Whose stedfast soul no ills can move; Boast him impregnable to fate, And equal to your mighty Jove.
4 Vain world, whose scenes of bliss and woe
Are shifting every fleeting hour; No longer shall our spirits owe
Their peace, or trouble, to thy pow'r. Teach as, thou Comforter divine,
Contentment ; should our all be gone : Teach us submission meek as thine,
" Father, thy will, not mine be done."
BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Come, Disappointment, come !
Not in thy terrors clad;
But I recline
Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful
Tho' Fancy flies away
Before thy hollow tread,
And tho' the tear
By chance appear, Yet who can smile and say, my all was not
Come, Disappointment, come!
Tho' from hope's summit hurl'd,
To turn my eye
From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never
What is this passing scene?
A peevish April day!
Man (soon discuss'd)
Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in
Oh! what is Beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies;
Beneath its surface lies ?