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With health and spirits not content;
On pleasures still, or trifles bent,

Each glittering work of art;
A picture, medal, bust, or seal,
From Wisdom's charms thy love can steal,

And, captivate thy heart.''' >'• i..-'. I

But ah!' though Tully pleads in vain, ...;•:
Nor Seneca can yet restrain ••. *> >•'.' ,,

The ardors of thy foul:
Oh! listen what the sacred page . ,; .:
« Prescribes to check wild sancy's rage,

And every thought control.

.i i.| . . • ., •* *
No longer with the Muses sport;
Let younger Bards their savour court,

On, whom they gladly smile: :..•..'. .'.'.'.>
Though yet indulged, hope not for praise:'
Ah, how insipid are thy lays!

How obsolete thy style! • . . . : 1.>. . . .

t

Each fond pursuit of lise give o'er;

Old age creeps on, then write no more . :" •

In profe or jingling rhyme; With critic eye thy works review; Scan well thy ways; thy lise renew;

Correil thy saults in time.

"Thy counsel's good: heaven grant I may,
Whilst lise remains, each.fleeting day

Some human frailty mend!
With conscience clear, then cheersul wait
The time allotted to my sate;

Still mindsul of my end!"

To Tq a Young Gentleman.

BE not, my Friend, by youth deceived,
Nor lets the Siren be believed,
Though smooth and soft her strain:
Away on whirling wheels she flies,
Swist as the gust that rides the skies
Without or yoke or rein.

Youth must resign its blooming charms
To Age, whofe cold, whofe frozen arms

Will wither every joy:
Tis brittle glass; 'tis rapid stream;
Tis melting wax, 'tis hair-dressed dream,

That Time will soon destroy. .

So smiles at Morn the dewy Rofe,
And to the genial breezes blows,

Revolving odours round:
But, crushed by Evening's surious rains,
It droops, it sinks upon the plains,

Down-trodden on the ground.

Hours, days, months, years impetuous fly,
Like meteors darting through the sky,

And must return no more.
Know my young Friend, that moments fled,
Are moments ever, ever dead,

And cancelled from thy sccTe.

See how the globes, that fail the heaven,
Around in rapid eddies driven,

Are hastening to their doom:
Time rushes to Eternity,
Eager in his embrace to die,

His patent and his tomb.

Though

Though we in this low vale were born,
Yet this low vale our fouls should scorn,

And to the heaven should rise:
So the larks hatched on clods of earth,
Disdain their mean inglorious birth,

And warble to the skies.

On an Urn at Worville, in Shropshire.

STRANGER! is woods and lawns like these;
If rural scenes thy sancy please;
Ah! stop awhile, and pensive view
Poor Shenstones Urn: who oft, like you,
These woods and lawns well-pleased has roved,
And oft these rural scenes approved.
Like him be thou sair Virtue's friend,
And health, and peace, thy steps attend!

A SHORT HYMN.

James ii. 22. Thou fees that faith wrought together with his works, and by works was faith made perfeel.

THE power of saith his works begot,
They did not lise on saith bestow,
But saith with works together wrought,
And working saith did stronger grow;
New lise by exercise obtain,
And thus its sull perfection gain.

As motion raised by vital heat,

Increase the heat, and vigour brings,
The work which saith doth sirst beget,

Augments the source from whence it spring*;
And saith by each exertion grows.
And suller still the fountain flows.

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