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PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.
TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND.
Round Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
See! with united wonder cried
The experienced and the sage,
With all the skill of age !
Discernment, eloquence, and grace,
Proclaim him born to sway
And bear the palm away.
The praise bestow'd was just and wise ;
He sprang impetuous forth,
Attends superior worth.
So the best courser on the plain
Ere yet he starts is known,
What all had deem'd his own.
ODE TO PEACE.
Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return, and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view ;
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
And pleasure's fatal wiles ?
The banquet of thy smiles ?
The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make ?
And wilt thou quit the stream
To be a guest with them?
Whate'er I loved before ;
Farewell! we meet no more?
WEAK and irresolute is man ;
The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
Vice seems already slain;
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
'Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,
Man vainly trusts his own.
To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.
THE MODERN PATRIOT.
REBELLION is my theme all day;
I only wish 'twould come (As who knows but perhaps it may ?)
A little nearer home.
Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
On t'other side the Atlantic, I always held them in the right,
But most so when most frantic.
When lawless mobs insult the court,
That man shall be my toast,
Who bravely breaks the most.
The choicest flowers she bears,
Such civil broils are my delight,
Though some folks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright,
And that a rope must cure them.
A rope ! I wish we patriots had
Such strings for all who need 'emWhat! hang a man for going mad !
Then farewell British freedom.
BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,
TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH 07
So then the Vandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,
Than ever Roman saw !
And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift,
many a treasure more,
That graced his letter'd store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,
The loss was his alone ;
The burning of his own.
ON THE SAME.
WHEN wit and genius meet their doom
In all devouring flame,
And bid us fear the same.