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That genius arm'd with high perfuafion's power-
The power of human conduct! awful trust!
Yet haply thine! And O if doom'd to guide,
Bleft arbiter of good, the moral scale;
Whether thy care to vindicate the rights
Of outrag'd innocence, and crush the fiends
That weave the Belial-artifice; or stem
In evil hour, corruption's torrent tide;
Or fhine the facred delegate of heav'n;-
O be thy study to imprefs on all

The features of thy honeft worth, and gain
The fame of Virtue! Hence Perfuafion draws
New dignity and grace! Attention hangs
Enamour'd on the mufic of a voice

Infpir'd by genuine probity, and breath'd
From all-effential goodnefs! Such the charms
Of Virtue!-Yet her femblance, uninform'd
By the warm heart, how vain! O feed the fires
That glow in generous bofoms! Be thy care
To give each exemplary deed the force
Of truth, and plain fincerity of foul!
For there's an energy in confcious worth-
A noble daring, (but to Virtue's race

Unknown) that kindles thro' the crowd, the flame
Of emulative merit; fpreads around
A kindred feeling; and impels the mind
To all that high activity, the fource
Of happiest execution. Such the fire

Of other days, while Greece furvey'd her fons
Crown'd, awful victors, with the double wreath
Of Eloquence and Virtue! Lo more pure
In redolence and bloom, to Glory's orb
The awaken'd genius of thy country waves
That wreath and warm with rapture as he views
Its heav'n-born luftre-"Be it thine (he cries)
"Aufpicious youth (to nobler deeds foredoom'd)
"To merit all the renovated rays;

"And thus, reflected by thy brighter brows,
Beyond ev'n Grecia's, be thy Albion's fame!"


[By the Rev. THOMAS WARTON, B. D. Poet-Laurcat.]



MID the thunder of the war,

True glory guides no echoing ear;
Nor bids the fword her bays bequeath,
Nor ftains with blood her brightest wreath;

of the Spectators, feem to be hovering over the dishes. Wine, the great purveyor of pleafure, and the fecond in rank among the fenfes, offers his fervice, when love takes his leave. It is natural to catch hold of every help, when the spirits begin to droop. Love and wine are good cordials, but are not proper for the beverage of common ufe. Refolve not to go to-bed on a full meal. A light fupper and a good confcience are the beft receipts for a good night's reft; and the parents of undisturbing dreams. Not to be enervated by the flatulency of tea. Let the fecond or third morning's thought be to confider of the employment for the day; and one of the laft at night to enquire what has been done in the course of it. Not to let one's tongue run at the expence of truth. Not to be too communicative nor unreserved. A clofe tongue, with an open countenance, are the fafeft paffports through the journey of the world. To correct the error of too much talking, and restrain the narrativeness of the approaching climacteric. To take the good-natured fide in converfation. However, not to praife every body, for that is to praife no body. Not to be inquifitive, and eager to know fecrets, nor be thought to have a head full of other people's affairs. Not to make an enemy, nor to lofe a friend. To aim at the esteem of the public, and to leave a good name behind. Not to be fingular in drefs, in behaviour, in notions, or expreffions of one's thoughts. Never to give bad advice, and to frive not to fet a bad example. Seldom to give advice till afked, for it appears like giving fomething that is fuperfluous to "one's felf. Not to like or diflike too much at first fight. Not to wonder, for all wonder is ignorance

that poffeffion falls fhort of expectation. The longing of twenty years may be disappointed in the unanfwered gratification of a fingle hour. Whilft we are withing, we fee the best fide; after we have taken poffeffion, the worst. Refolved, to attend to the arguments on both fides: and to hear every body against every body. The mind ought not to be made up, but upon the best evidence. To be affectionate to relations, which is a kind of felf-love, in preference to all other acquaintance. But not to omit paying the commanding refpect to merit, which is fuperior to all the accidental chains of kindred. Not to debilitate the mind by new and future compofitions. Like the fpider, it may fpin itself to death. The mind, like the field, muft have its fallow feafon. The leisure of the pen has created honourable acquaintance, and pleafed all it has wifhed to pleafe. To refolve, not to be too free of promises, for performances are fometimes very difficult things. Not to be too much alone, nor to read, nor meditate, or talk too much on points that may awaken tender fenfations, and be too pathetic for the foul. To enjoy the prefent, not to be made too unhappy by reflection on the past, nor to be oppreffed by invincible gloom on the future. To give and receive comfort, thofe neceffary alins to a diftreffed mind. To be conftantly thankful to Providence for the plenty hitherto poffeffed, which has preferved one from the dependence on party, perfons, and opinions, and kept one out of debt. The appearance of a happy fituation, and opportunities of tafting many worldly felicities (for content has feldom perverted itself into difcontent), has induced many to conclude, that one must be pleased

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7HERE Hitchin's gentle current glides,
An ancient convent ftands,

Sacred to prayer and holy rites
Ordain'd by pious hands.

Here monks of faintly Benedict
Their nightly vigils kept,
And lofty anthems fhook the choir
At hours when mortals flept.

But Harry's wide reforming hand
That facred order wounded;
He fpoke-from forth their hallow'd walls
The friars fled confounded.

Then wicked laymen ent'ring in,
Thofe cloisters/fair prophan'd;
Now Riot loud ufurps the feat
Where bright Devotion reign'd.

Ev'n to the chapel's facred roof,
Its echoing vaults along,

Refounds the flute, and fprightly dance,
And hymeneal song.

Yet Fame reports, that monkish shades
At midnight never fail

To haunt the manfions once their own,

And tread its cloisters pale.

One night, more prying than the reft,
It chanc'd a friar came,

And enter'd where on beds of down
Repos'd each gentle dame.

Here, foftening midnight's raven gloom,
Lay Re, blufhing maid;

There, wrapt in folds of cypress lawn

Her virtuous aunt was laid.


The VILLAGE FREEHOLDER. [From the News Paper, a Poem, by Mr. CRABEE.]


OR here th' infectious rage for party flops,
But flits along from palaces to fhops;
Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,
And spread their plagues and influenzas round;
The village too, the peaceful, pleasant plain,
Breeds the whig-farmer and the tory-fwain;
Brooks' and St. Alban's boasts not, but instead
Stares the Red Ram, and fwings the Rodney's head:
Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he
Who owns the little hut that makes him free;
Whofe yearly forty thillings buy the smile
Of mightier men, and never waste the while;
Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate,
A little prop and pillar of the state.

Here he delights the weekly news to con,
And mingle comments as he blunders on;
To fwallow all their varying authors teach,
To fpell a title, and confound a speech:
Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,
And claims his nation's licence to abuse;
Then joins the cry, "that all the courtly race
Strive but for power, and parley but for place;"
Yet hopes, good man! "that all may ftill be well,"
And thanks the stars that he's a vote to fell.

While thus he reads or raves, around him wait
A ruftic band, and join in each debate;

Partake his manly fpirit, and delight

To praise or blame, to judge of wrong or right;
Measures to mend, and ministers to make,

Till all go madding for their country's fake.

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To Heav'n my eyes are often caft
(From Heav'n their light began)
Yet deign fometimes to view on earth
Its image stampt on man.

Ah me! I fear in borrow'd shape
Thou com'ft, a bafe deceiver;
Perhaps the devil, to tempt the faith
Of orthodox believer.

For once my hand, at masquerade,
A reverend friar preft;

His form as thine, but holier founds
The ravish'd faint addrest.

He told me vows no more were made
To fenfeless stone and wood,

But adoration paid alone.

To faints of flesh and blood,

That rofy cheeks, and radiant eyes,
And treffes like the morn,
Were given to bless the present age,
And light the age unborn :

That maids, by whofe obdurate pride
The hapless lover fell,
Were doom'd to never-dying toils
Of leading apes in hell.

Refpect the first command, he cried,
Its facred laws fulfil,

And well obferve the precept given
To Mofes-Do not kill.

Thus fpoke, ah yet I hear him speak!
My foul's fublime physician;
Then get thee hence, thy doctrines vile
Would fink me to perdition.

She ceas'd-the monk in fhades of night
Confus'dly fled away,

And Superftition's clouds diffolv'd

In fenfe, and beauty's ray.


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