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'Tis manly musick, such as martyrs make,

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Suff'ring with gladness for a Saviour's sake;
His soul exults, hope animates his lays,
The sense of mercy kindles into praise,
And wilds, familiar with a lion's roar,
Ring with ecstatick sounds unheard before;
'Tis love like his, that can alone defeat
The foes of man, or make a desert sweet.
Religion does not censure or exclude

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Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursu'd ;
To study culture, and with artful toil

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To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil;

To give dissimilar, yet fruitful lands,

The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands;

To cherish virtue in an humble state,

And share the joys your bounty may create;

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To mark the matchless workings of the pow'r,

That shuts within its seed the future flow'r,
Bid these in elegance of form excel,

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In colour these, and those delight the smell
Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies,
To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes,
To teach the canvass innocent deceit,
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet-
These, these are arts pursu'd without a crime,
That leave no stain upon the wing of Time.
Me poetry, (or rather notes that aim

Feebly and vainly at poetick fame,)

Employs, shut out from more important views,
Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse;

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Content if thus sequester'd I may raise

A monitor's though not a poet's praise,

And while I teach an art too little known,

To close life wisely, may not waste my own

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THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR,

TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burden of my song.

The priest he merry is and blitho,
Three quarters of the year,
But, oh! it cuts him like a sithe,
When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of frights and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears,
He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come, jog, jog,

Along the miry road,

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

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In sooth, the sorrow of such days

Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes, and he that pays,
Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-
He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the cian,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come-cach makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,

And not to quit a score.

"And how does miss and madam do, "The little boy, and all?"

"All tight and well. And how do you "Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?"

The dinner comes, and down they sit
Wore e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,

Yet not to give offence or grieve,

Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull

And lumpish still as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,

They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins,
"Come, neighbours, we must wag-"

The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs, that he has lost By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one," A rarer man than you
"In pulpit none shall hear :
"But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
"You sell it plaguy dear."

O why are farmers made so coarse
Or clergy made so fine?

A kick that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum
Without the clowns that

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.

COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard Legends prolix delivers in the cars,

(Attentive when thou read'st,) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea

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Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but silence honour'd thee,

Mute as e'er gaz'd on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with musick sweet
Of Attick phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide
Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet
Of others' speech, but magick of thy own.

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