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THE lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace, with which they steal away,
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when past,

And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,
A difference strikes at length the musing heart;
Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound
How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd!
But Time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.



SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—

Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course:
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and bless'd where'er she goes,
Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.


Air-" My fond shepherds of late," &c.

No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue; O Happiness! not to be found, Unattainable treasure, adieu!

I have sought thee in splendour and dress, In the regions of pleasure and taste;

I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess, But have proved thee a vision at last.

An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope

And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love:
But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.


Air-" The Lass of Patie's Mill."

WHEN all within is

peace, How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease,

The live-long day beguile. From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers Fresh blessings to deceive

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees;

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,
And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd In nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill display'd,

Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best;

It flutters to depart,
And longs to be at rest.

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SEPT. 1782.

To the March in Scipio.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

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