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FROM THE AUTHOR
CELEBRATED METHODIST PREACHER.
A truce with fanatical raving:
That both of us thrive by-deceiving.
Will boldy each other bespatter :
So let's have no more of the matter.
TRUANT TO HIS FRIENDS. 'Tis not in cells, or a sequester'd cot,
The mind and morals properly expand; Let Youth step forward to a busier spot,
Led by Discretion's cool conducting hand. To learn some lessons from the schools of man,
(Forgive me!) I forsook my darling home; Not from a light, an undigested plan,
Nor from a youthful appetite to roam. your
affections—(let resentment fly!) Restore me to my long-accustom'd place; Receive me with a kind forgiving eye,
And press me in the parent's fond embrace.
WRITTEN ABOUT THREE WEEKS BEFORE HIS DEATH.
DEAR lad, as you run o'er my rhyme,
And has Cunningham time
Is just from the letters I owe; But blameless I still may appear,
For nonsense is all I bestow. However, for better, for worse,
As Damons their Chloes receive, E'en take the dull lines I rehearse
They're all a poor friend has to give. The Drama and I have sbook hands,
We've parted, no more to engage; Submissive I met her commands
For nothing can cure me of age. My sunshine of youth is no more!
My mornings of pleasure are fled! 'Tis painful my fate to endure
A pension supplies me with bread! Dependant at length on the man
Whose fortunes I struggled to raise !
His charity merits my praise.
"Tis principle prompts the supplyHis kindness exceeds my desert,
And often suppresses a sigh.
But like the old horse in the song,
I'm turn’d on the common to grazeTo Fortune these changes belong,
And contented I yield to her ways ! She ne'er was my friend; through the day
Her smiles were the smiles of deceitAt noon she'd her favours display,
And at night let me pine at her feet. No longer her presence I court,
No longer I shrink at her frowns ! Her whimseys supply me with sport
And her smiles I resign to the clowns! Thus lost to each worldly desire,
And scorning all riches-all fameI quietly hope to retire
When Time shall the summons proclaim, I've nothing to weep for behind!
To part with my friends is the worst ! Their numbers, I grant, are confined,
But you are still one of the first,
In the barn the tenant cock,
Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock !)
Jocund that the morning 's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nursed by night, retire : And the peeping sunbeam now
Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn,
Plaintive where she prates at night; And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,
See the chattering swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale ; Kidlings now begin to crop
Daisies in the dewy dale.
From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd
(Restless till her task be done), Now the busy bee's employ'd,
Sipping dew before the sun. Trickling through the creviced rock,
Where the limpid stream distils, Sweet refreshment waits the flock
When 'tis sundrove from the hills. Colin, for the promised corn
(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn,
Boldly sounding, drown his pipe. Sweet,-0 sweet the warbling throng,
On the white emblossom’d spray! Nature's universal song
Echoes to the rising day.
FERVID on the glittering flood,
Now the noontide radiance glows: Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dewdrop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines;
From the fierce meridian heat Shelter'd by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his grassy seat. Now the flock forsakes the glade,
Where, uncheck’d, the sunbeams fall; Sure to find a pleasing shade
By the ivy'd abbey wall.