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COWPER.

VERSES, Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his

solitary Abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez, I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place. I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finith my journey alone. Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I ftart at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference fee, They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of a dove,

How soon wou'd I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heav'nly word! More precious than filver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell

These vallies and rocks never heard, Ne'er ligh'd at the sound of a knell,

Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your fport,

Convey to this desolate shore,
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to fee. How fleet is a glance of the mind !

Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempeft itself lags behind,

And the swifc-winged arrows of light. When I think of my owa native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair. But the fea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair, E'en here is a seafon of rest,

And I to my catybin repair. There is mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affi&tion a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

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BOADICEA,

AN ODE. WHEN the British warrior Queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods, Sage, beneath a spreading oak,

Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Ev'ry burning word he spoke,

Full of rage, and full of grief. Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perishwrite that word

In the blood that lhe has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorr’d,

Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states, Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.
Other Romans shall arife,

Heedless of a soldier's name,
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that fprings
From the forests of our land,

Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command. Regions, Cæfar never knew,

Thy posterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never few,

None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he sweeps the chords

Of his sweet, but awful lyre.. She with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bofom glow, Rush'd to battle, fought and died,

Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heay'n awards the vengeance due, Em is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

THE SHRUBBERY.

Written in a Time of Affliction. OH, happy shades—to me unbleft!

Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot reft, agree ! This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze, Might soothe a foul less hurt than mine,

And please, if any thing could .please

But fix'd unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness ev'ry where,

And Nights the season and the scene. For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,

While peace possessid these filent bow'rs, Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs. The faint or moralift should tread

This moir-grown alley, musing, now ; They seek, like me, the secret lade,

But not, like me, to nourish woe! Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

THE ROSE.
THE Rofe had been wash’d, just walh'd in a show'r,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flow'r,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all weto

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush were șt grew.
I haftily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowad,

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