Pleased with life, fond of health, yet fearless of

death;

Believing she lost not her soul with her breath.

To Mrs. MOORE.

A Poem on Friendship. Written in 1729.

FRIENDSHIP! the heavenly theme I sing;

Source of the truest joy!

From sense such pleasures never spring,
Still new, that never cloy.

"Tis sacred Friendship gilds our days,
And smooths life's ruffled stream:

Uniting joys will joys increase,
And, sharing, lessen pain.

'Tis pure as the ethereal flame,
That light the lamps above;

Pure, as the infant's thought from blame;
Or, as his mother's love.

From kind benevolence it flows,

And rises on esteem.

'Tis false pretence, that interest shows,

And fleeting as a dream.

The wretch, to sense and self confined, Knows not the dear delight;

For generous Friendship wings the mind, To reach an angel's height.

Amidst the crowd each kindred mind
True worth superior spies;

Tho' hid the modest veil behind,
From less discerning eyes.

From whose discourse instruction flows;
But satire dares not wound:

Their guiltless voice no flattery knows,
But scorns delusive sound.

While truth divine inspires each tongue, The soul bright knowledge gains: Such ADAM ask'd, and GABRIEL sung, In heavenly MILTON's strains.

Such the companions of your hours,
And such your loved employ ;
Who would indulge your noblest
But know no guilty joy.

powers,

And thus, as swift-wing'd time brings on

Death, nearer to our view; Tuned to sweet harmony our souls,

We take a short adieu;

Till the last trump's delightful sound
Shall wake our sleeping clay:
Then swift, to find our fellow-souls,
Lightly we haste away.

My Wish.

WOULD heaven indulgent grant my wish," For future life, it should be this:

Health, peace, and friendship I would share ;
A mind from business free, and care;

A soil that's dry in temperate air;
A fortune from incumbrance clear,
About a hundred pounds a year;

A house not small, built warm and neat,
Above a hut, below a seat;

With groups of trees beset around,
In prospect of the lower ground,

Beneath the summit of a hill,

From whence the gushing waters trill,
In various streams, that winding flow
To aid a river just below;

At a small distance from a wood,

And near some neighbours wise and good;
There would I spend my remnant days,
Review my life, and mend my ways.
I'd be some honest farmer's guest,
That with a cleanly wife is blest:
A friendly Clerick should be near,
Whose flock and office were his care:
My thoughts my own, my time I'd spend
In writing to some faithful friend:
Or on a bank, by purling brook,
Delight me with some useful book,
Some sage, or bard, as fancy led;
Then ruminate on what I'd read.
Some moral thoughts should be my theme;
Or verdant field, or gliding stream;

Or flocks, or herds, that shepherds love;
The shepherds would my song approve.

No flattery base, nor baser spite,

Not one loose thought my Muse should write;

Nor vainly try unequal flight.

Great GEORGE's name let poets sing,

That rise on a sublimer wing:

I'd keep my passions quite serene,
My person and apartment clean,
My dress not slovenly, but mean.
Some money still I'd keep in store,
That I might have to give the poor:
To help a neighbour in distress,
I'd save from pleasure, food and dress :
I'd feed on herbs, the limpid spring
Should be my helicon-I'd sing,
And be much happier than a King:
Thus calmly see my sun decline;
My life and manners thus refine;
And acting in my narrow sphere,
In chearful hope, without one care,
I'd quit the world, nor wish a tear