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Yours is the sacred charge, by Heav'n assign'd,
On earth to cherish this proud Child of Mind.
That charge how glorious! how sublime the trust!
To Heav'n be faithful,-and to Man be just.
Guard this rich gem of the celestial mine,
And bid its light to latest ages shine.
Behold, with all the glow of Genius fir'd,
For letters with unbounded zeal inspir'd,

That PRINCE whose heart beats high for Britain's fame,
And bounds at Liberty's transporting name,
On Heav'n-born Talent sheds a cheering ray,
Auspicious promise of a brighter day!
Nor unrequited shall his bounty stream-
GENIUS rolls back the bright reflected beam;
For cherish'd fires confers sublime renown,
And with new glories gilds the British Crown.
Foster'd by You,-beneath these frozen skies,
I see new SHAKESPEARES, SPENSERS, MILTONs rise.
I hear new DRYDENS, but in manlier strain,
Resound some future GEORGE's glorious reign;
And other JONESES, if the Fates are kind,
With all their talents, all their fires combin'd,
In Orient climes uphold the British name,
And bless the FUND that nurs'd their rising flame.

EPIGRAM.

SUCH a liar is Ned that there's none can lie faster, Excepting his maid, and she'll lie with her master.

S.

A BIRTH-DAY THOUGHT.

THE AUTHOR, 20.

BY THE LATE REV. R. POTTER.

SEE, from the roseate east the morning springs,
And her fresh beams o'er brightening nature flings:
Joy to the new-born day!-Alas, what joy,
What cause of gladness can my thoughts employ?
If this revolving morn gave me to light
From the dark womb of unessential night,
Shall it be hail'd thro' each returning year?
This gratulation how will reason bear?
Is there a cause of joy? Look back, my soul,
Bid the past year in due succession roll.
Light ludicrous and dismal! folly, noise,
Substantial sorrows, and unreal joys;

Childhood's dark morning, youth's uncertain ray,
Manhood's hot noon mark out the various day;
No wisdom, but through folly's school obtain'd;
No passion conquer'd, and no virtue gain'd.-
And shall I bless the day, that brings again
The same wild farce, nor shifts the idle scene?
Yes, I will bless it; for perhaps this day
Opens the last great act that ends the play.
This act no light atellane laugh shall raise,
But, grave with moral, merit sober praise:
Then shall some decent epilogue engage
Th' approving crowd to clap me off the stage.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. DR. KIPPIS.

BY HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

PLAC'D 'midst the tempest, whose conflicting waves
The buoyant form of Gallic Freedom braves,
I from its swelling surge unheedful turn,
While o'er the grave where Kippis rests I mourn.
Friend of my life, by ev'ry tie endear'd,

By me lamented, as by me rever'd!

Whene'er remembrance would the past renew,
His image mingles with the pensive view;

Him through life's length'ning scene I mark with pride,
My earliest teacher, and my latest guide.

First, in the house of pray'r, his voice impress'd
Celestial precepts on my infant breast;

"The hope that rests above," my childhood taught,
And lifted first to God my ductile thought.
And, when the heav'n-born Muse's cherish'd art
Shed its fresh pleasures on my glowing heart;
Flash'd o'er my soul one spark of purer light,
New worlds unfolding to my raptur'd sight;
When first with timid hand I touch'd the lyre,
And felt the youthful poet's proud desire;
His lib'ral comment fann'd the dawning flame,
His plaudit sooth'd me with a poet's name;
Led by his counsels to the public shrine,
He bade the trembling hope to please be mine;

What he forgave, the critic eye forgives,
And, for a while, the verse he sanction'd lives.
When on that spot where Gallic Freedom rose,
And where she mourn'd her unexampled woes,
Scourge of his nature, and its worst disgrace,
Curse of his age, and murd'rer of his race,
Th' ignoble Tyrant of his Country stood,
And bath'd his scaffolds in the patriot's blood;
Destin'd the patriot's fate in all to share,
To feel his triumphs, and his pangs to bear;
To shun th' uplifted axe, condemn'd to roam
A weeping exile from my cherish'd home*,
When malice pour'd her dark insatiate lye,
Call'd it, though death to stay, a crime to fly;
And, while the falsehood serv'd her hateful ends,
Congenial audience found in hollow friends;
Who to the tale "assent with civil leer,

"And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;"
His friendship o'er me spread that guardian shield,
Which his severest virtue best could wield;
Repell'd by him, relentless Slander found.
Her dart bereft of half its pow'r to wound.
Alas! no more to him the task belongs
To soothe my sorrows, or redress my wrongs;
No more his letter'd aid, enlighten'd Sage!
Shall mark the errors of my careless page;
Shall hide from public view the faulty line,
And bid the merit he bestows be mine.
Ah! while with fond regret my feeble verse
Would pour its tribute o'er his hallow'd hearse,
For him his Country twines her civic palm,
And Learning's tears his honour'd name embalm ;

*Miss W. took refuge in Switzerland, during the tyranny of Roberspierre.

His were the lavish stores her force sublime
Through ev'ry passing age has snatch'd from Time;
His, the Historian's wreath, the Critic's art,
A rigid judgement, but a feeling heart;
His, the warm purpose for the gen'ral weal,
The Christian's meekness, and the Christian's zeal;
And his, the moral worth to which is giv'n
Earth's purest homage, and the meed of Heav'n.

LOVE.

BEHOLD yon gaudy painted flower,
Gay blushing to the morning rays,
It sprung and blossom'd in an hour,
With night's chill blast its bloom decays;
Yet thoughtless maidens, as they rove,
Mistake, and call this flow'ret love.

But Love's true flow'r, before it springs,
Deep in the breast its fibres shoots,
And clasps the heart, and round it clings,
And fastens by a thousand roots;
Then bids its strengthen'd tendrils climb,
And braves the chilling blast of time.

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