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But soon Reflection's power imprest
And though in distant climes to roam,
Still, Mary! still I Sigh for thee.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
Death came with friendly care;
And bade it blossom there,
WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS, FORMERLY
THE HOUSE OF THE “MAN OF ROSS."
RICHER than Miser o'er his countless hoards,
Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords, Here dwelt the Man of Ross! O Traveller, hear! Departed Merit claims a reverent tear. Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health, With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth ;
He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer
praise, He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, Or where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay, Poured the bright blaze of Freedom's noontide ray. Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass, Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul, And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl. But if, like me, through life's distressful scene Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been; And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought; Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt, And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt !
To all, and at all times ;
His voice, as well as rhymes.
Yet folks say—“Mævius is no ass ;"
But Mævius makes it clear, That he's a monster of an ass
An ass without an ear.
TO A BFAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.
ONCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wan
dering near, I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours,
paper navies on thy waveless breast.
mand, Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand. Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls The faded form of past delight recalls, What time the morning sun of Hope arose, And all was joy; save when another's woes A transient gloom upon my soul imprest, Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon: Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, Or o'er the rough rock bursts and forms along !
LINES ON A FRIEND
WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY
EDMUND! thy grave with aching eye I scan, And inly groan
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
TO A YOUNG ASS.
ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.
Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race!
I love the languid Patience of thy face: And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head. But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed, That never thou dost sport along the glade ? And (most unlike the nature of things young) That earth ward still thy moveless head is hung ? Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?