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He stopp'd, he gaz'd, to wild conceits
His roving fancy run,
He took the aunt for prioress,

And Re for a nun.

It happ'd that R's capuchin,
Across the couch display'd,
To deem her fister of the veil,
The holy fire betray'd.

Accofting then the youthful fair,
His raptur'd accents broke;
Amazement chill'd the waking nymph :
She trembled as he spoke.

Hail halcyon days! hail holy nun!
This wond'rous change explain:
Again Religion lights her lamp,
Reviews thefe walls again.

For ever bleft the power that checkt
Reformifts wild diforders,
Reftor'd again the church's lands,
Reviv'd our facred orders.

To monks indeed, from Edward's days,
Belong'd this chaste foundation;
Yet fifter nuns may answer too

The founder's good dunation.

Ah! well thy virgin vows are heard:
For man were never given

Those charms, referv'd to nobler ends,
Thou fpotlefs fpoufe of Heaven!

Yet fpeak what cause from morning mass
Thy ling'ring steps delays:
Hafte to the deep-mouth'd organ's peal
To join thy vocal praife.

Awake thy abbess fisters all;

At Mary's holy shrine,

With bended knees and fuppliant eyes
Approach, thou nun divine!

No nun am I, recov❜ring cried
The nymph; no nun, I fay,
Nor nun will be, unless this fright
Should turn my locks to grey.

'Tis true, at church I feldom fail
When aunt or uncle leads;
Yet never rife by four o'clock
To tell my morning beads.

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No mortal lover yet, I vow,
My virgin heart has fixt,
But yet I bear the creature's talk
Without a grate betwixt.

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 base deceiver;
Perhaps the devil, to tempt the faith
Of orthodox believer.

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

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

He told me vows no more were made
To senseless 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 phyfician;
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.

The

As ought occurs that he may fmile to hear,
Or turn to nourishment, digefted well.
Or if the garden with its many cares,
All well repay'd, demand him, he attends
The welcome call, confcious how much the hand
Of lubbard labor needs his watchful eye,
Oft loit'ring lazily if not o'erfeen,
Or mifapplying his unfkilful frength.
Nor does he govern only or direct,

But much performs himself. No works indeed
That afk robust tough finews bred to toil,
Servile employ-but fuch as may amuse,
Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.
Proud of his well-fpread walls, he views his trees
That meet (no barren interval between)

With pleasure more than ev'a their fruits afford,
Which, fave himself who trains them, none can feel.
These therefore are his own peculiar charge,
No meaner hand may discipline the shoots,
None but his fteel approach them. What is weak,
Diftemper'd, or has loft prolific pow'rs
Impair'd by age, his unrelenting hand

Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the foft
And fucculent that feeds its giant growth
But barren, at th' expence of neighb'ring twigs
Lefs oftentatious, and yet ftudded thick
With hopeful gems. The reft, no portion left
That may difgrace his art, or difappoint
Large expectation, he difpofes neat
At meafur'd distances, that air and fun
Admitted freely may afford their aid,

And ventilate and warm the fwelling buds.
Hence fummer has her riches, autumn hence,
And hence ev'n winter fills his wither'd hand
With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own,
Fair recompenfe of labour well beftow'd
And wife precaution, which a clime fo rude
Makes needful ftill, whose spring is but the child
Of churlish winter, in her froward moods
Difcov'ring much the temper of her fire.
For oft, as if in her the stream of mild
Maternal nature had revers'd its course,
She brings her infants forth with many fmiles,
But once deliver'd, kills them with a frown.
He, therefore, timely warm'd, himself supplies
Her want of care, fcreening and keeping warm
The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep
His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft
As the fun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild,
The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam,
And fpreads his hopes before the blaze of day.

MORN

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Into chairs for philofophers, thrones too for kings,
Serve the highest of purposes, lowest of things;

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Make brooms to mount witches, make May-poles for May-days,
And boxes, and ink-stands, for wits and the ladies.-

His fpeech pleas'd the vulgar, it pleas'd their fuperiors,

By Johnson flopt fhort-who his mighty pofteriors
Applied to the trunk-like a Sampfon, his haunches

Shook the roots, fhook the fummit, fhook ftem, and fhook branches!
All was tremor and fhock !—now defcended in fhowers

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Wither'd leaves, wither'd limbs, blighted fruits, blighted flowers!
The fragments drew critics, bards, players along,
Who held by weak branches, and let go the strong;
E'en Garrick had dropt with a bough that was rotten,
But he leapt to a found, and the flip was forgotten.
Now the plant's clofe receffes lay open to day,
While Johnfon exclaim'd, ftalking ftately away,
Here's rubbish enough, till
For children to gather, old women to burn;
homeward return,
Not practis'd to labour, my fides are too fore,
Till another fit feafon, to fhake you down more.
What future materials for pruning, and cropping,
And cleaning, and gleaning, and lopping, and topping!
Yet mistake me not, rabble! this tree's a good tree,
Does honour, dame Nature, to Britain and thee;
And the fruit on the top-take its merits in brief,
Makes a noble defert, where the dinner's roast beef!

The

COTTAGE and COTTAGERS.

[From Mr. PRATT's Landscapes in Verfe.]

OFT peers, thro' foliage deep,

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The ruffet dwelling of an ancient pair,

Who thrice ten finiling years, beneath its roof,
(Blush gay and great ones of a jarring world!)
Have led a virtuous life of wedded love!
In days of nuptial diffonance and ftrife,

This pattern, rare and high, Cleone views,
And plucking foft the unadorned latch,

Enters the cot, where Love with Nature reigns
Far from the city artifice :-the pair
We find, with all their progeny around,
In goodly rows affembled at the board
Of buxom Health, who spreads the light repaft,
Which Hofpitality, (fuch as of yore
Our ancient Britons, lov'd, ere courtier
The once wide opening door infidious clos'd)
With importunings fweet, invites to fhare.
Their offer'd boon accepted, we furvey

pomp

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To fit, indulging love's delufive dream,
And fnare the ilver tenants of the ft eam;
Or (nobler toil!) to aim the deadly blow
With dextrous art again the spotted foe;
O days with youthful daring mark'd! 'twas then
I dragg'd the fhaggy moniter from his den,
And boldly down the rocky mountain's fide,
Hurl'd the grim panther in the foaming tide.
Our healthful sports a daily feast afford,
And ev'n fill found us at the focial board,
Can I forget? Ah me! the fatal day,
When half the vale of peace was swept away!
Th'affrighted maids in vain the Gods implore,
And weeping view from far the happy fhore;
The frantic dames impatient ruffians feize,
And infants fhriek, and clafp their mothers' knees;
With galling fetters foon their limbs are bound,
And groans throughout the noisome bark refound.
Why was I bound! Why did not Whydah fee
Adala gain or death or victory!

No ftorms arife, no waves revengeful roar,
To dafh the monsters on our injur'd fhore.
Long o'er the foaming deep to worlds unknown,
By envious winds the bulky veffel's blown,
While by difeafe and chains the weak expire,
Or parch'd endure the flow confuming fire.
Who'd in this land of many forrows live,
Where death's the only comfort tyrants give?
'Tyrants unbleft! Each proud of strict command,
Nor age nor fickness holds the iron hand;
Whole hearts, in adamant involv'd, defpife
The drooping females tears, the infants cries,
From whofe ftern brows no grateful look o'erbeams,
Whose blushless front nor rape nor murder fhames.

Nor all I blame, for Naftal, friend to peace,
Thro' his wide paflures bids oppreffion cease;
No drivers goad, no galling fetters bind,
Nor ftern compulfion damps th' exalted mind.
There ftrong Arcona's fated to enjoy
Domestic sweets, and rear his progeny ;
To till his glebe employs Arcona's care,

To Naftal's God he nightly makes his pray'r;

*

His mind at ease, of Christian truths he'll boast

He has no wife, no lovely offspring loft.

Gay his favannah blooms, while mine appears

Scorch'd up with heat, or moift with blood and tears.
Cheerful his hearth in chilling winter burns,
While to the ftorm the fad Adala mourns.

• The Quakers in America have fet free all their Negroes, and allow them wages as other fervants.

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