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THE WINTER'S WALK.

BY THE SAME.

BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove, What dreary prospects round us rise; The naked hill, the leafless grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning skies!

Nor only through the wasted plain,
Stern Winter! is thy force confess'd;
Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power usurp my breast.

Enlivening Hope and fond Desire

Resign the heart to Spleen and Care; Scarce frighted Love maintains her fire, And Rapture saddens to despair.

In groundless hope, and causeless fear,
Unhappy man! behold thy doom;
Still changing with the changeful year,
The slave of sunshine and of gloom.

Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms,
With mental and corporeal strife,
Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,

And screen me from the ills of life.

HYMN

IN THE

ORATORIO OF ABEL.

How cheerful along the gay mead
The daisy and cowslip appear,
The flocks as they carelessly feed,
Rejoice in the spring of the year;
The myrtles that shade the gay bow'rs,
The herbage that springs from the sod,
Trees, plants, cooling fruits, and sweet flow'rs,
All rise to the praise of my God.

Shall man, the great master of all,
The only insensible prove?
Forbid it, fair Gratitude's call,

Forbid it, Devotion and Love.

The Lord who such wonders could raise,
And still can destroy with a nod,

My lips shall incessantly praise,

My soul shall be wrapt in my God!

THE MISER AND PLUTUS.

A FABLE.

BY GAY.

THE wind was high, the window shakes,
With sudden start the Miser wakes;
Along the silent room he stalks,

Looks back, and trembles as he walks,
Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every creek and corner pries,
Then opes the chest with treasure stor'd,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard.
But now, with sudden qualms possest,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast,
By conscience stung, he wildly stares,
And thus his guilty soul declares:

Had the deep earth her stores confin'd, This heart had known sweet peace of mind. But virtue's sold. Good gods! what price Can recompense the pangs of vice!

O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy pow'r defeat?
Gold banish'd honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
Gold sow'd the world with ev'ry ill;

Gold taught the murd'rer's sword to kill:

'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treach'ry's more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!

He spoke and sigh'd. In angry mood
PLUTUS, his god, before him stood.
The Miser, trembling, lock'd his chest;
The vision frown'd, and thus addrest:

Whence is this wild ungrateful rant?
Each sordid rascal's daily cant:
Did I, base wretch! corrupt mankind?
The fault's in thy rapacious mind.
Because my blessings are abus'd,
Must I be censur'd, curs'd, accus'd?
E'en Virtue's self by knaves is made
A cloak to carry on the trade;

And power (when lodg'd in their possession)
Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.

Thus, when the villain crams his chest,

Gold is the canker of the breast;
'Tis av'rice, insolence, and pride,
Add every shocking vice beside:
But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blesses, like the dews of Heaven:
Like Heav'n it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows' eyes.

Their crimes on gold shall Misers lay,
Who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay?
Let bravoes, then (when blood is spilt).
Ubpraid the passive soul with guilt,

THOU

TO THE MEMORY OF

DAVID GARRICK, Esq.

JANUARY 20, 1779.

great reviver of the Attic fire!

Thou noblest patron of the tuneful lyre!
Thine was the power, and thine the gentle art,
To swell the passions, and subdue the heart!
For thee, the fairest breast has heav'd a sigh,
And the tear started from the brightest eye!
Learning and wit alike bave bow'd the knee,
And hermits left their cells to gaze on thee!
On thee shall charm'd remembrance love to rest;
Come every Muse, and strive to praise him best!
For, ah! my lute the tribute cannot pay,
And the big tear has blotted out the lay!
Ye skilful nine, who shall the chaplet weave?
Hail his bright day!-nor mourn his tranquil eve!
Your Garrick hail!-he breathes, he lives again,
Lives in the thought, and breathes in every strain!
Triumphant Fame enrols his acts on high,
And tells the mourner-Garrick cannot die!

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