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

YOUNG.

The Country Clergyman.

,

TEAR yonder copfe, where once the garden smild,

And fill where many a garden flower grows

wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modeft mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And paffing rich with forty pounds a year ; Kemote from towns he ran his gødly races Nor e'er had chang’d, nor wilh'd to change his place ; ; Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fathion'd to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heant had learn'd to prize; More fkill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. His house 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 descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'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 lide;
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.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his controul,
Despair and anguish Aed the struggling soul;
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 prevaild with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honeft rustic ran; Even children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expreft, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had reft in Heaven. As fême tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho'round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

GOLDSMITH.

My Mother.
IN IMITATION OF COWPER'S « MARY."

W a

HO fed me from her gentle breast, And on my cheek sweet kiffes preft ? :

My Mother. When sleep forsook my waking, eye, Who was it sung sweet lullaby, And rock'd me that I should not cry?

My Mother. Who fat and watch'd my infant head, When sleeping on my cradle bed, And tears of sweet affection shed ?

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

My Mother. Who dress'd my doul 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 some 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 waft so very kind to me?

My Mother. Ćc

O no! the thought I cannot beat,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,

My Mother
When thou art feeble, old, and

grey, My healthy arms shall be thy stay, And I will soothe thy pains away,

My Mother.
And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy będ,
And tears of sweet affection Thed,

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,

Come, Rose, come courted to my bower: Queen of the banks ! the garden's bliss !

Come and abash yon tawdry flower. Why call us to revokeless doom?

With grief the op’ning buds reply; Not suffer'd to extend our bloom,

Scarce born, alas! before we die!

Man having pass’d appointed years,

Ours are' bút days—the scene must close :
And when Fate's meflenger appears,
What is he but a Withering Rose?

CUNNINGHAM

On the Miseries of Human Life.
H little think the gay licentious proud,

Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
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 :
How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame : 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 cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery : Sore piered by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the fordid hut
Of cheerless poverty: How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;
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 paflions, droop.
In deep-retir'd distrefs : 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 Itruggle render life
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appalld,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think
The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide with Benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rise, the social figh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work. THOMSON.

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