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Hymn to Prosperity.

ELESTIAL maid! receive this pray'r,

e'er thy beam divine Should gild the brow of toiling care,

And bless a hut like mine.

CELE

Let humble worth, without a fear,

Approach my ready door, Nor let me ever see a tear,

Regardless, from the poor !

O bless me with an honest mind,

Above all felfish ends, Humanely warm to all mankind, And cordial to

my

friends.

With conscious truth and honour still

My actions let me guide,
And have no fear, but that of ill,

No fcorn, but that of pride.

Thus form'd, thus happy, let me dare

On Heav'n's dread King to gaze, Conclude my night in ardent pray'ı,

And wake my mom with praise.
That hence my foul may hope to prove

The utmoft faints can know;
And fhare His gracious fmile above,

Whose laws she kept below. CARTER. The Three Black Crows.

WO honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand,

One took the other briskly by the hand;
Hark ye ! said he, 'tis an odd ftory. this
About the crows -- I don't know what it is,
Replies his friend.-No! I'm surpriz'd at that;
Where I come from it is the common chat:
But
you

shall hear an odd affair indeed !
And, that it happen'd, they are all agreed :
Not to detain you from a thing fo ftrange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the Alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up Three black crows!

Impossible ! Nay, but 'tis really true; I had it from good hands, and so may youFrom whose, I pray ?-So having nam'd the man, Straight to enquire his curious comrade ran. Sir, did you tell, relating the affairYes, sir, I did ; and if it's worth your care, Ask Mr Such-an-one, he told it me, But, by the bye, 'twas. Two black crows, not Three.

Refoly'd to trace so wond'rous an event,
Whip, to the third, the virtuofo went.
Sir and so forth-Why, yes, the thing is fact,
Tho' in regard to number not exact ;
It was not Two black crows, 'twas only one,
The truth of that you may depend upon.
The gentleman himself told me the case.
Where may I find him ?Why, in such a place.

Away he went, and having found him out,
Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt
Then to his last informant he referr'd,
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard;
Did you, fir, throw up a black crow?-NOT I-
Bless me!--how people propagate a lie !

Black crows have been thrown up, Three, Two, and

One ;
And here, I find, all comes at last to None !
Did you say nothing of a crow at all ?
Crow-crow—perhaps I might, now I recal
The matter o'er. And, pray Sir, what was't?,
Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last
I did throw up, and told my neighbour fo,
Something that was- as black, fir, as a crow.

Invocation to Harmony.
NELESTIAL harmony descend,

,

Thy chearful voice let forrow hear,
And cease to drop the penfive tear ;
Bid joy, extatic joy, impart
Its pleasing influence to the heart.
Descend, celestial harmony,
Joy owes its sweetest charm to thee.

When love the bofom fills, 'tis thine
His pow'r to heighten and refine ;
Thy thrilling warblings soft and flow,
Attun'd to melting paffion flow,
And bid the soul enraptur'd prove,
That music is the voice of love ;
Descend, celestial harmony,
Love owes its sweetest charm to thee,

Enchanting power! 'tis thine to ftill
The storms that life's fad circle fill;
The burthen of our woes to ease,
And make our pleasures doubly please ;
Each tender feeling to refine
Through life, enchanting power, 'tis thine ;
Descend, celestial harmony,
Love owes its sweetest charm to thee.

BEDINGFIELD.

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The Washing Week.

To Captain G. THOMPSON.

-Kew, May 25, 1765.

In ,

N

(You bred in camp, I bred at lea)
That cleanliness is oft
A cursed plague about a house,
And always met our just abuse,

When boys with Mrs Croft.
But to the beggar and the king,
Clean linen's a reviving thing:

Yet thefe our plagues don't reach;
The beggar strips with jocund morn,
In some quick stream, and on the thorn

Spreads out his rags to bleach.
The king, great man, fends all his out,
Not caring for a single clout:

But what's more happy still,
He's not oblig'd to count the rags,
Nor stuff 'em into canvass bags,

Oh! no-nor write the bill.
But Lord have mercy on us all!
When'er we wash, all hands must fall

To something or another;
For madam scolds, and flies about,
Now up, now down, now in, now out,

Dabbling thro' wet and smother.

This cursed time all comfort flies,
At fix the starts ; come, Ned, come rife,

And get the lines hung out !
Yes, to be sure, (my dear) I cry,
I dare as well be hang'd as lie,

For fear my dove should pout.

Breakfast is got, and whipt away,
(Because the washers want their tea)

* Before that I've half done :-
The doors all open-linen spread,
The sky looks black, --come hither, Ned,

Shall we have rain or sun ?
My dear, you need not be in pain,
It does not look, I think, like rain ;

O! then we'll hang out more:
When lo! the words have hardly past,
But puff there comes a heavy blast,

And all must be rins'd o'er.
Then tenfold falls the peal on me;
You afs, to be ten years at fea,

See, see the linen, do !-
I sneak away, to have a smile,
Snug, while I hear her all the while,

Calling me black and blue.
From such unlucky storms of rain,
Nothing with me goes well again,

The dinner comes and cold :
The meat, I cry, of soap-suds twangs,
Up madam gets, the door she bangs,

And re-begins to scold.
But what still troubles more my mind,
Amidst such griefs at once to find

The washer, as she wrings,
Cracking fome jeft—then o'er the tub
Pauses awhile--and ev'ry rub

With pleasure sweats and fings.
I hate, I must confefs, all dirt,
And truly love a well-wash'd shirt,

Yet once a month this reek,
Is more than flesh and blood can bear;
And him I hate-o make his share

A washing every week! E. THOMPSON.

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