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O happy Britain! we have not to fear, Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else, could a law, like that which I relate, Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few, that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold; While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

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 fear’d by them,

Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,

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 her sister 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,

Sball shine, and dry the tear.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE.-OCTOBER, 1780. That ocean you have late survey'd,

Those rocks I too have seen,
But I, afflicted and dismay'd,

You tranquil and serene.
You from the flood-controlling steep,

Saw stretch'd before your view,
With conscious joy, the threatening deep,

No longer such to you.
To me, the waves that ceaseless broke

Upon the dangerous coast,
Hoarsely and ominously spoke

Of all my treasure lost.
Your sea of troubles you have passid,

And found the peaceful shore;
I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last,

Come home to port no more.

TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

Unwin, I should but ill repay

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

As ever Friendship penn’d,
Thy name omitted in a page,

That would reclaim a vicious age.

A union form'd, 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.

The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose, 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.

Not rich, I render what I may,

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

Lest this should prove the last. "Tis where it should be—in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

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.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO RAIN

HAD FALLEN THERE.—1793.

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IF Gideon's fleece, which drench’d with dew he found,
While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd
With heavenly gifts, to Heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry.
Heaven grant us half the omen-may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!

ON THE

BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS.
BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780.
So then-the Vandals of our isle,

Sworn foes to sense and law,
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile

Than ever Roman saw!
And MURRAY sighs o'er Pope and Swift,

And many a treasure more,
The well-judged purchase and the gift,

That graced his letter'd store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,

The loss was his alone ;
But ages yet to come shall mourn

The burning of his own.

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