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And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
MAN OF ROSS.
But all our praises why should lords engross?
Who feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, Where
age and want sit smiling at the gate? Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise? The Man of Ross, each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread: Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, blest, The young
who labour, and the old who rest. Is any
sick? The Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the med'cine takes and gives.. Is there a variance? Enter but his door, Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attornies, now an useless race. “ Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue “ What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do.. “ O say, what sums that gen'rous hand supply? " What mines to swell that boundless charity?” Of debts and taxes, wife or children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year. . Blush, grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw.
Ye little stars! hide
rays. “ And what! No monument, inscription,stone? " His race, his form, his name almost unknown?” Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name:
GOD works in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform:
And rides upon the storm.
Of never-failing skill,
And works his sov’reign will.
Ye feeble saints, fresh courage take:
The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his
grace; Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.
Unfolding every hour:
But wait to smell the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain; God is his own Interpreter,
And he shall make it plain.
ON THE WORDS,
“ If thou knewest who it is, &c.
AT Jacob's well a stranger sought
His ardent thirst to clear;
The Font of LIFE so near:
For LIVING DRAUGHTS had sigh’d;
Those living draughts deny'd. And Jacob's Well (no glass so truc)
Britannia's image shows;
But who the Stranger knows?
Or soon her loss deplore:
Come drink, and thirst no more!