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No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonish’d, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end.
But he, who knew what human hearts would

prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Callid for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, “ Go, spend them in the vale of tears.”
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air !
O salutary streams, that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys ;
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin:
But ills of every shape and every name,
Transform’d to blessings, miss their cruel aim
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast,
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is near ; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thineSo once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.

TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

Unwin, I should but ill

repay
The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay,

As ever friendship penn'd,
Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age.

A union form’d, as mine with thee,

Not rashly, or in sport,
May be as fervent in degree

And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love,

The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though differing in its kind, The stock whereon it

grows, With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, As if produced by nature there.

Not rich, I render what I may,

I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first essay,

Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be - in a plan, That holds in view the good of man.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blazed by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.

TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

The swallows in their torpid state

Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early Spring.

The keenest frost that binds the stream,

The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,

Secure of their repose.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys; With present ills his heart must ache,

And pant for brighter days.

Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.

Then April, with her sister May,

Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day,

To crown the smiling hours.

And if a tear that speaks regret

Of happier times, appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met,

Shall shine, and dry the tear.

CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON,

(NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)

She came-she is gone-we have met-

And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem

That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made,

Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with a tone, Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witness'd her own.

My numbers that day she had sung,
And

gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

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