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Soft pity! thou whose swelling eyes still bend
O'er some sail object, maid of heaven descend :
Ah let one face of generous grief be near ;
Thy store can spare for helpless age a tear.
And thou whose eyes with patient hope serene,
Still look to heav'n, and scorn this languid scene :
Calm resignation! teach him how to prize
That awful hour on which thy faith relies.
A busy life demands a serious close ;
And grief can ask no more than soft repose.
That ease is death's, when kings shall frown no more,
And victims bless the stroke, they fear’d before.
Then heart-wrung grief shall draw a longer lot,
The scalding tear of yesterday forgot;
Then shall the cloud that frown d upon the sight
Disclose its brighter side, its tints of light.
Already sickness chills the small remains
Of vital heat that warms his wither'd veins.
Already from his eyes its fires has stole,
Revealing there the fears that load his soul.
That force elastic which can rise tho' prest
With sorrows load, forsakes his aged breast ;
The weakened frame receives the galling weight,
Feels its diminished strength, and yields to fate.
Tears fill the furrows of his reverend cheek,
Whose silent rhetoric proves language weak.
Each heart must sicken when a man shall weep,
A great man's tears inflict a shock too deep.
Too strong the conflict. Nature sinks oppress'd.
What gate stands wide to succour the distress'd ?

Religion's holy mansion * rises near,
No son of woe can come a stranger there.
There pious hands shall thrust the bar aside;
Slow to her humble door, too low for pride,
Till pride shall stoop, they bear their painful load,
There sorrow oft has found a safe abode.
With kind concern and hospitable care,
The sons of peace each needful help prepare,
An anxious readiness in each appears,
For all with pity view his helpless years.
Soon as his rank, and high estate they learn,
Respect and wonder swell their first concern;
In vain they strive ; for Oh no kindling breath
Can e'er renew the flame once chill’d by death.
His eyes already lose their sickly gloom,
For well he feels his hour of peace is come.
These faultering words, whose accents last shall leave
His trembling lips, the pious train receive.

“O sad mistake! O vain misguiding light,
« Pursued alas too far, as false, as bright!
“ O fatal error, ill repented now,
() wretch, before a mortal God to bow!

“ Had I, just God of truth, obeyed thy word “ With half the zeal I serv'd an earthly Lord, « Thou ne'er had'st left me in


friendless hour, " Thus old, to feel the scourge of worldly power.

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* Leicester Abby. The fatigue of his journey, and the distress of his mind, rendered hiin incapable of proceeding further towards London. He reached this place with great difficulty, and died there.

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for me,

“ Thy toil is light, thy recompense secure, “ I serv'd a prince whose smiles were never sure ; “ Who fearless scorn'd all hazard to fulfill “ Some purpose of a wild ungovern d will. “ He who shall live to see with aged eyes “ The tombs of parents, children, friends arise, “ Shall often wish his ashes slept with theirs, “ And crave their pillow in his warmest prayers. “ But I tho' struggling in each moment's breath, “ Suill wish'd to live, till sorrow welcom'd death, “ No change to misery can be a curse, “ The happy only fear a sad reverse. Yet let my royal master deign to hear, “ That Wolsey nam'd him in his latest prayer. « Ah, let him think on all the toil I bore, And weep

when I can weep no more.” Fate checks the rest; in vain they bend around : Life pass'd his lips, and vanish'd with the sound. On heav'n with anxious hope he fix'd his eye, And breath'd, with lifted hands, his last sad sigh. Still silence reigns; true grief ne'er spends its force Like shallow streams that murmur in their course. The deepest waters ever silent flow, And heart-sick sorrow hates the noise of woe. The holy father, rais'd by elder years, And virtue more mature, commends their tears, And strives to leave with lasting force impress'd, These pious lessons on each soften'd breast.


ye, whom now the world's long-faded charms • Shall ne'er seduce from holy virtue's arms; “ No longer toss'd in dreams of worldly care, “ Ye pensioners of peace, and sons of prayer,



“ Learn hence to prize your own secure retreat; “ Subdued by you, still fortune rules the great. “ Your frailest thoughts, ere truth confirm’d the breast, “ Ne'er feign'd, what he whose fate you mourn possess'd. “ Yet, such was he, who here resign'd his breath, “ Happy at length to go, tho' led by death, " Where base ingratitude must quit her aim;

Happy to lose the bitter sense of shame. “ Howe'er projected high, when fate shall call “ Back to this common centre all must fall. Grown stiff in death, the eye which glanc'd command, “ Shall crave the office of a pious hand. “ Perhaps that care unpay'd, deny'd a tomb “ Till pitying winds the hated face consume. “So quickly vanish grandeur, wealth and power; “ The giant shadows of life's sun-shine hour. “ Behold how soon the supple slaves of state, “ Thankless, forget the favours of the great, Down fortune's fav’ring current still they glide, “ But never turn to strive against the tide. “ The friends of power, like armies rais'd for show, “ The practis'd forms of mimic duty kuow; “ In gay review observe each nice command, “ But in an hour of danger never stand, “ Yet think not that Adversity bestows • No sun shine


for all her show'rs of woes; “ That gift was her's which last his eyes confest, “ That beam of soft anticipated rest. “ The tears of sufferance are but the seeds “ Of future bliss; when joy to grief succeeds, “ Each drop shall purge from worldly film the sight, “ And fit it for a brighter, purer light.

“ Had fav’ring fortune still remain'd his guide, “ Nor e'er to life's last step forsook his side, “ Far other passions then had fill'd his eyes, “ Which wean'd at length from earth, now sought the

66 skies. " Then happy he who trembling on life's brink

Already bent, desires at once to sink ; " And as his wrinkles lean to earth more near, " Wishes to cover them for ever there. “Be ours that fortitude; that bliss attend,

And smooth the awful hour, when life must end; “ Still trust a Power, whose word can ne'er deceive, “And ne'er repine a joyless world to leave; : : " Where on a sea, by hourly tempest tost,

All blindly steer, the helm of reason lost; “Where many sink, and they who gain the shore, “ Think them as happy who were drown'd before ; « Where all are busied in some vain pursuit, “ Fair in its blossom, barren in its fruit. “ Till late they find when full possession cloys,

They earn'd disgust, but paid for real joys.


Hang me outright, but I could spend
Whole days and nights with you, my friend.
But two miles sever us, or more ;
To and come, I make them four.
You're often absent, oft denied,
Engag'd, or sick, or occupied :

sight's well worth a two-mile trudge---
Four miles to miss you is the grudge!



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