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In pity to the sinners he designed
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, “Go spend them in the vale of tears."
Oh balmy gales of soul reviving air,
Oh salutary streams that murmur there,
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love!
The finty soil indeed their feet annoys,
And sudden sorrow nips their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown
To niar delights superior to its own,
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hatred inmate, sin;
But ills of every shape and every name
Transformed to blessings miss their cruel aim,
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast,
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a distant waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd is for ever near ; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine'Twas thus in Gideon's feèce the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.

TO THE

REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

I.
Unwin, I should but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,
Whoje worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penned,
'Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age.

II.
An union formed, as mine with thee,

Not rashly, nor in sport,
May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.

III.
The bud inserted in the riod,

The bud of peach or robe,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,

The stock whereon it grows,
With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair,
As if produced by nature there.

288

TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIX.

IV.
Not rich, I render what I may,

I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first essay,

Least this should prove the last,
'Tis where it should be in a plan,
That holds in view the good of man.

V.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blazed by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME,

1

T. Bensley, Printer, Bolt-court, Fleet-střect, London.

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