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Has matter more than motion? Has it thought,
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,
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
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.
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,
grey, My healthy arms shall be thy stay, And I will soothe thy pains away,
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 :
On the Miseries of Human Life.
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;