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Aware then how much danger intervenes,
To compass that good end, forecast the means.
His heart, now pallive, yields to thy command;
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place.
But, if thou guard its sacred chambers fure
From vicious inmates and delights impure,
Either his gratitude thall bold him faft,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind (as who can say
But, being man, and therefore frail, be may ?)
One comfort yet fhall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he flight thee, thou hast done thy part.
Oh barbarous! wouldest thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools--what!-all the schools
i th' land;
Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooins,
Or turn them into shops and auction rooms?
A captious question, fir, (and your’s is one)
Deserves an answer fimilar, or none.
Wouldest thou, poffeffor of a flock, employ
(Apprized that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A fight not much unlike niy fimile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws;
'fhence the prevailing manners take their caft,
Extravagant or sober, loofe or chaste,
And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each—This Building to be Let,
Unless the world were all prepared to embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confefs,
Or better managed, or encouraged less.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor feared by them
Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake, i
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ake,
And pant for brighter days.
Old winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return;
Then April, with ber fister May,
Shall chase him from the bowers,
And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.
And, if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall Ahine and dry the tear.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
She came—the is gone-we have met
And meet perhaps never again; The fun of that moment is fet,
And seems to have risen in vain,