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You suppose you 're a genius, that ought to engage
The attention of wits, and the smiles of the age :
Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,
Why-every man thinks just the same of his own.

You imagine that Pope — but yourself you beguile -
Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same

Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope, -
Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope,

You think of my muse with a friendly regard,
And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward ;
But let not his glory your spirits elate,
When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.


** Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him ? "

Aldborough, 1773.
Proud, little Man, opinion's slave,

Error's fond child, too duteous to be free,
Say, from the cradle to the grave,

Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee?
This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheel
Moves by deep springs, which thou canst never feel :
Her day and night, her centre and her sun,
Untraced by thee, their annual courses run.
A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine,
And flattering fancy calls the motion thine:
Untaught how soon some hanging grave may burst,
And join thy flimsy substance to the dust.


Aldborough, '1778. The wintry winds have ceased to blow,

And trembling leaves appear;
And fairest flowers succeed the snow,

And hail the infant year.

So, when the world and all its woes

Are vanish'd far away,
Fair scenes and wonderful repose

Shall bless the new-born day, –

When, from the confines of the grave,

The body too shall rise;
No more precarious passion's slave,

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,
New waking from unconscious night:
Trembling and poor I still remain
To meet unconscious night again.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers,
To cheer or cheat the weary hours;
And those few strangers, dear indeed,
Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.


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
To bless the sense and bind the will,
To bid the gloom of care retire,
And fan the flame of fond desire,
Remembrance then had kept the strain,
And not a care return'd again.


Aldborough, 1779.
THINK ye the joys that fill our early day,

Are the poor prelude to some full repast.
Think you they promise ? — ah! believe they pay ;

The purest ever, they are oft the last.
The jovial swain that yokes the morning team,

And all the verdure of the field enjoys,
See him, how languid ! when the noontide beam

Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys.
So 't is with us, when, love and pleasure fled,

We at the summit of our hill arrive :
Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past.

are dead,
But what still deepening clouds of Care survive !


Aldborough, 1779
O! SACRED gift of God to man,

A faith that looks above,
And sees the deep amazing plan

Of sanctifying love.

Thou dear and yet tremendous God,

Whose glory pride reviles;
How did'st thou change thy awful rod

To pard’ning grace and smiles !



with sin, with shame, below,
I trust, this bondage past,
A great, a glorious change to know,

And to be bless'd at last.

I do believe, that, God of light!

Thou didst to earth descend,
With Satan and with Sin to fight -

Our great, our only friend.

I know thou did'st ordain for me,

Thy creature, bread and wine;
The depth of grace I cannot see,

But worship the design.


Aldborough, 1779.
The sober stillness of the night

That fills the silent air,
And all that breathes along the shore

Invite to solemn prayer.

Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!

Which points the sacred way,
And let thy creatures here below

Instruct me how to pray.


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?

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