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You suppose you 're a genius, that ought to engage
You imagine that Pope — but yourself you beguile -
You think of my muse with a friendly regard,
** Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him ? "
Error's fond child, too duteous to be free,
Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee?
Aldborough, '1778. The wintry winds have ceased to blow,
And trembling leaves appear;
And hail the infant year.
So, when the world and all its woes
Are vanish'd far away,
Shall bless the new-born day, –
When, from the confines of the grave,
The body too shall rise;
Nor error's sacrifice.
'Tis but a sleep — and Sion's king Will call the
dead : 'Tis but a sleep — and then we sing,
O'er dreams of sorrow fled.
Yes!— wintry winds have ceased to blow,
And trembling leaves appear, And Nature has her types to show
Throughout the varying year.
Aldborough, Dec. 24. 1778. THROUGH a dull tract of woe, of dread, The toiling year has pass'd and fled : And, lo! in sad and pensive strain, I sing my birth-day date again.
Trembling and poor, I saw the light,
Time in my pathway strews few flowers,
Beccles, 1779. The Hebrew king, with spleen possest, By David's harp was soothed to rest; Yet, when the magic song was o'er, The soft delusion charm'd no more: The former fury fired the brain, And every care return'd again.
But, had he known Eliza's skill
Are the poor prelude to some full repast.
The purest ever, they are oft the last.
And all the verdure of the field enjoys,
Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys.
We at the summit of our hill arrive :
A faith that looks above,
Of sanctifying love.
Thou dear and yet tremendous God,
Whose glory pride reviles;
To pard’ning grace and smiles !
with sin, with shame, below,
And to be bless'd at last.
I do believe, that, God of light!
Thou didst to earth descend,
Our great, our only friend.
I know thou did'st ordain for me,
Thy creature, bread and wine;
But worship the design.
That fills the silent air,
Invite to solemn prayer.
Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!
Which points the sacred way,
Instruct me how to pray.
FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
Aldborough, 1779. Os, great Apollo! by whose equal aid The verse is written, and the med'cine made; Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers, In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours?