Has matter more than motion? Has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? Is it deeply learn'd
In mathematics I Has it fram'd fuch laws,
Which, but to guefs, a Newton made immortal?
If art, to form; and counsel, to conduct;
And that with greater far than human skill,
Refides not in each block;—a GODHEAD reigns:
And, if a GOD there is, that GOD how great!

YOUNG.

NEA

The Country Clergyman.

EAR yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows
wild;

There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modeft manfion rofe.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And paffing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or feck for power,
By doctrines fafhion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize;
More fkill'd to raise the wretched than to rife.
His houfe was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard defcending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd fpendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd;
The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhew'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide;
But in his duty prompt, at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd, and felt for all.
And as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Befide the bed where parting life was laid,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion ftood. At his controul,
Despair and anguish fled the ftruggling foul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faultering accents whisper'd praise. -
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double fway,
And fools, who came to fcoff, remain'd to pray.
The service paft, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown to fhare the good man's fmile.
His ready fmile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares diftreft;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ferious thoughts had rest in Heaven.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorm, Tho' round its breaft the rolling clouds are fpread, Eternal funshine settles on its head.

GOLDSMITH..

My Mother.

IN IMITATION OF COWPER'S "MARY."

Wand hund me in her arms to reft.

HO fed me from her gentle breast,

And on my cheek fweet kiffes preft?

My Mother.

When fleep forfook my waking eye,
Who was it fung fweet lullaby,
And rock'd me that I fhould not cry?
My Mother.

Who fat and watch'd my infant head,
When fleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of fweet affection fhed?

My Mother:

When pain and fickness made me cry,
Who gaz'd upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I fhould die ?
My Mother.

Who drefs'd my doll in cloaths fo gay,
And told me pretty how to play,

And minded all I had to fay?

My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would fome pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?

My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word and day,
And walk in Wisdom's pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who wast so very kind to me?

My Mother.

O no! the thought I cannot beat,
And if GOD please my life to fpare,
I hope I fhall reward thy care,

My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and grey,
My healthy arms fhall be thy ftay,
And I will foothe thy pains away,
My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection fhed,

My Mother.

For GOD, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in his eyes,
If I should ever dare despise

My Mother.

The Withered Rose.

WEET object of the zephyr's kiss,

bower:

Queen of the banks! the garden's bliss!
Come and abafh yon tawdry flower.

Why call us to revokeless doom?
With grief the op'ning buds reply;
Not fuffer'd to extend our bloom,
Scarce born, alas! before we die!

Man having pafs'd appointed years,
Ours are but days-the fcene must close:
And when Fate's meflenger appears,
What is he but a Withering Rofe?

CUNNINGHAM

On the Miseries of Human Life.

H little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence furround;
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot, wafte;

Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the fad variety of pain:

cup

How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flamme: How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man:
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs: How many drink the
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of mifery: Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many fhrink into the fordid hut
Of cheerless poverty: How many fhake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded paffion, madnefs, guilt, remorfe;
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic muse:
Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honeft paffions, droop
In deep-retir'd diftrefs: How many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish.-Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one inceffant ftruggle render life
One scene of toil, of fuffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would ftand appall'd,
And heedlefs rambling Impulfe learn to think ;
The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide with Benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rise, the focial figh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining ftill, the focial paffions work..

THOMSON.