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To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I now dare call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my GOD with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, He would not in my age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

THE

MAN OF ROSS.

POPE.

BUT all our praises why should lords engross ♬
Rise, honest muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Nor to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artless pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?

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, bless'd,
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 generous 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 your blaze :

Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

"And what! No monument, incription, 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.

ON

PROVIDENCE.

GOD works in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform:

He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable minds
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
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.

His purposes are rip'ning fast,
Unfolding every hour:

The bud may have a bitter taste,

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;
Samaria's daughter little thought

The FONT of LIFE SO near:
This had she known, her panting mind
For LIVING DRAUGHTS had sigh'd;
Nor had Messiah, ever kind,

Those living draughts deny'd.
And Jacob's Well (no glass so true)
Britannia's image shows;
Messiah travels Britain through,

But who the Stranger knows?
Yet Britain must the Stranger know,
Or soon her loss deplore :
Behold the living waters flow;

Come drink, and thirst no more!

THE

DESERTED VILLAGE.

GOLDSMITH.

SWEET Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering bloom delay'd,
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please.
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that top'd the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made.

Sweet smiling village loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bow'rs, the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;

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