The Vanity of Wealth.

AN ODE.

N

O more thus brooding o'er yon heap,

With Avarice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless lighs are breath'd for more.
O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase heaven--has gold the power ?
Can gold remove the mortal hour ?
In life can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship’s pleasures to be fold?
No-all that's worth a with a thought,
Fair Virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought.
Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.

With fcience tread the wond'rous way,
Or learn the Mufes moral lay;
In social hours indulge thy soul,
Where mirth and temp'rance mix the bowl:
To virtuous love resign thy breaft,
And be by blessing beauty-bleft.

Thus taste the feast by nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come taste with me the balm of life,
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.
I boast whate'er for man was meant,
In health, and Stella, and content;
And scorn! Oh! let that fcorn be thine!
Mere things of clay, that dig the mine.

DR JOHNSON.

An Address to the Deity.

OD of my And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue That hallow'd name to harps of Seraphs sung. Yet here the brightest Seraphs could no more Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere Are equal all, for all are nothing here. All nature faints beneath the mighty name, Which nature's works thro' all her parts proclaim. I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul, And breathe an awful stillness thro'

my As by a charm the waves of grief subfide, Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide : At thy felt presence all emotions cease, And my hush'd fpirit finds a sudden peace, 'Till every worldly thought within me dies, And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; Till all my sense is loft in infinite, And one vast object fills my aching fight.

soul ;

But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul fubnits to wear her wonted yoke ;
With shackled pinions strives to foar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as juft,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust.
His fpirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclin'd;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the smoaking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softest

cry,
descends to meet the lifted eye ;
He reads the language of a filent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.

Ee

His grace

Such are the vows, the facrifice I give ;
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live :
From each terreftrial bondage set me free;
Still every wish that centers not in thee;
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets, cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.

If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads
By living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,
Oh! teach me to elude each latent fnare,
And whisper to my fliding heart-beware!
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.

If friendless, in a vale of tears I ftray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady foul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; With equal eye my various lot receive, Refign'd to die, or resolute to live; Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is feen in all, and all in God.

I read his awful name, emblazon'd high With golden letters on the illumin'd sky; Nor less the mystic characters I fee Wrought in each flower, inscrib'd in every tree; In every

From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye ;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look ferene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.

BARBAULD.

To the Memory of Major Alderton, who was twice run

thro the body, and once foot: who, for bravery, charity, and generosity, few equall'd, and none excell'd.

Ilodge and the Razor-seller.

A TALE.

A Fellow mou a market town,

Most musical, cry'd razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly seem'd wond'rous cheap,
And for the money, quite a heap,

As ev'ry man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard :
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,

That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose :
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,

« 'This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

« No matter if the fellow be a knave, « Provided that the razors bave ;

" It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune went, Smiling in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,

Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!--then the reft he try'd
All were impostors" Ah,” Hodge sigh’d!

“ I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,

He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and swore ; Brought blood, and danc'd, blafphem'd, and made wry

faces, And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.