IN IMITATION OF COWPER'S "MARY."
HO fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush'd me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek fweet kiffes prest?
My Mother.
When fleep forfook my waking eye,
Who was it fung fweet lullaby,
And rock'd me that I fhould not cry?
My Mother.
Who fat and watch'd my infant head,
When fleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of fweet affection fhed?
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gaz'd upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
Who drefs'd my doll in cloaths fo gay,
And told me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would fome pretty story tell,
Or kifs the place to make it well?
Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word and day,
And walk in Wisdom's pleasant way?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me?
O no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if GOD please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
When thou art feeble, old, and grey,
My healthy arms fhall be thy stay,
And I will foothe thy pains away,
And when I fee thee hang thy head, 'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, And tears of sweet affection fhed,
For GoD, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in his eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
The Withered Rose.
SWEET object of the zephyr's kifs,
Come, Rofe, come courted to my bower: Queen of the banks! the garden's bliss! Come and abafh yon tawdry flower.
Why call us to revokeless doom?
With grief the op'ning buds reply;
Not fuffer'd to extend our bloom,
Scarce born, alas! before we die!
Man having pafs'd appointed years,
Ours are but days-the fcene muft clofe:
And when Fate's meffenger appears,
What is he but a Withering Rofe?
On the Miseries of Human Life.
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence furround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot, waste;
Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the fad variety of pain:
How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame: How many bleed,
By fhameful variance betwixt man and man :
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs: How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of mifery: Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many fhrink into the fordid hut
Of cheerless poverty: How many fhake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded paffion, madness, guilt, remorse;
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic muse:
Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honeft paffions, droop
In deep-retir'd distress: How many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguifh.Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one inceffant struggle render life
One scene of toil, of fuffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think;
The confcious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rife, the focial figh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining ftill, the focial paffions work.
was a fummer evening,
ka done;
And he before his cottage door
Was fitting in the fun,
And by him fported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She faw her brother Peterkin
Roll fomething large and round, That he befide the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was fo large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kafpar took it from the boy,
Who ftood expectant by ;
And then the old man fhook his head,
And with a natʼral figh,
'Tis fome poor fellow's skull, faid he,
Who fell in the great victory.
I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughfhare turns them out;
For many thousand men, faid he,
Were flain in the great victory.
Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for.
It was the English, Kaspar cry'd,
That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But ev'ry body faid, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.
My father liv'd at Blenheim then,
Yon little ftream hard by,
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forc'd to fly:
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to reft his head.
With fire and fword the country round
Was wafted far and wide.
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant died.
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
They fay it was a shocking fight
After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the fun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.-
Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhelmine.
Nay-nay-my little girl, quoth he,
It was a famous victory.
And every body prais'd the Duke
Who fuch a fight did win.
But what good came of it at laft?-
Quoth little Peterkin.
Why, that I cannot tell, faid he,
But 'twas a famous victory.
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