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ON THE DEITY.

I READ God's awful name emblazon'd high
With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky;
Nor less the mystic characters I see

Wrought in each flow'r, inscrib'd on ev'ry tree;
In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees.
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
creature own thy forming pow'r,
In each event thy providence adore.

In

every

Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control:
Thus shall I rest, unmov'd by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms,
From anxious cares, from gloomy sorrows free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, And earth recedes before my swimming eye; When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate I stand and stretch my view to either state; Teach me to quit this transitory scene With decent triumph, and a look serene; Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.

Mrs. Barbauld.

BALLAD.

Sung by Angelina in the character of a Pilgrim.

I TRAVERS'D Judah's barren sand,
At beauty's altar to adore;

But there the Turk had spoil'd the land,
And Sion's daughters were no more.
In Greece, the bold, imperious mien,
The wanton look, the leering eye,
Bade love's devotion not be seen,
Where constancy is never nigh.

From thence to Italy's fair shore
I bent my never ceasing way,
And to Loretta's temple bore

A mind devoted still to pray.
But there, too, Superstition's hand
Had sicklied ev'ry feature o'er,
And made me soon regain the land
Where beauty fills the western shore.

Where Hymen with celestial power
Connubial transport doth adorn,
Where purest virtue sports the hour
That ushers in each happy morn.
Ye daughters of old Albion's isle!
Where'er I go, where'er I stray-
O, Charity's sweet children, smile
To cheer a pilgrim on his way!

STANZAS

On meeting a man loaded with sacks, and an oak bough in his hat, on the twenty-ninth of May.

POOR fellow what hast thou to do
With king-or restoration?
"Twill make no difference with you,
Whoever rules the nation.

Still must thy neck support the load,
Still earn thy bread with toil;
Still must thou pace the self-same road,
And great ones share the spoil.

The ass may carry broom or men,
Just at his master's will;

But let him change, and change again,
His lot's a burthen still.

Still ministers will tyrannize,
And courtiers still be knaves;
Walpoles on Walpoles shall arise,
And keep thy grandsons slaves.

Still governments have been the same,
The same shall ever be:

Ev'n kings are nothing but a name,

And so is liberty.

Alexander Thistlewaite, Esq.

THE SHEPHERD'S INVITATION.

COME live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That vallies, groves, or hills and fields, And all the steepy mountain, yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies ;

А сар

of flowers, and a kirtle,

Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: -And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight, each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Christopher Marlow.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in ev'ry shepherd's tongue;
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flock from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb:
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flow'rs do fade, and wanton fields'
To wayward Winter's reck'ning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten-
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

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