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“So come along, no more we'll part;"

He said, and touch'd him with his dart;
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.



1. PARENT of virtue, if thine ear

Attend not now to sorrow's cry; If now the pity-streaming tear

Should haply on thy cheek be dry; Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity!

2. Come, ever welcome, to my breast ! A tender, but a cheerful, guest; Nor always in the gloomy cell Of life-consuming sorrow dwell; For sorrow, long indulg'd and slow, Is to Humanity a foe; And grief, that makes the heart its prey, Wears sensibility away: Then comes, sweet nymph instead of thee, The gloomy fiend, Stupidity.

S. O may that fiend be banishi'd far, Though passions hold eternal war! Nor ever let me cease to know The pulse that throbs at joy or woe; Nor let my vacant cheek be dry, When sorrow fills a brother's eye; Nor may the tear that frequent flows From private or from social woes, E'er make this pleasing sense depart? Ye Cares, O harden not my heart !

4. If the fair star of fortune smile, Let not its flattering power beguile, Nor, borne along the fav’ring tide, My full sails swell with floating pride. Let me from wealth but hope content, Remembering still it was but lent; To modest merit spread my store, Unbar my hospitable door; Nor feed, with pomp, an idle train, While Want unpitied pines in vain.

5. If heaven, in every purpose wise, The envied lot of wealth denies; If doom'd to drag life's painful load 'Through poverty's uneven road,



8. It comes: it fills my labouring breast; I feel my beating heart opprest. Oh! hear that lonely widow's wail! See her dim eye! her aspect pale! To heaven she turns in deep despair, Her infants wonder at her prayer, And, mingling tears they know not why, Lift up their little hands and cry. O God! their moving sorrows see! Support them, sweet Humanity!

Life, fill'd with grief's distressful train,
For ever asks the tear humane,
Behold, in yon unconscious grove,
The victims of ill-fated love;
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is not romantic woe!
The golden day of joy is o'er;
And now they part to meet no inore.
Assist them, hearts from anguish free!
Assist them, sweet Humanity!

10. Parent of Virtue, if thine ear

Attend not now to sorrow's cry; If now the pity-streaming tear

Should haply on thy cheek be dry; Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity!




As Phæbus darted forth his milder ray,
And length’ning days confess'd the short'ning day;
To Tiber's banks repaired an am'rous swain,
The love and envy of the neighb’ring plain.
To cool his heat he songht the breezy grove:
To cool his beat, but more the heat of love:
To sooth his cares, on the soft lute he play'd :
But the soft lute refresh'd the lovely maid:
Conspiring elms their umbrage shed around,
Wav'd with applause, and listend to the sound.
Sweet Philomel, the chorister of love,
The musical enchantress of the grove,
With wonder heard the shepherd as he play'd,
And stole, attentive, to the tuneful shade.
Perch'd o'er his head the silver syren sate,
With envy burning, and with pride elate;
Ambitiously she lent a list'ning car,
Charm'd with the very sounds she dy'd to hear:
Each note, each flowing accent of the song,
She soothi’d, and sweeten'd with her softer tongne;
Gently refin'd each imitated strain,
And paid him with his barmony again.

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