Superior excellence of man proclaims, Labour to man was as his portion given; Another age demands an equal fhare; Number and weight, and measure to explain; How well was that advice, Thyfelf to know," Afcrib'd to Heaven by fages long ago! Thy very doubt of all these wond'rous things, From that high monitor within thee fprings. Daughter of Heaven, my foul! for fuch thou art, (Not of material elements a part) On this fair scene thy prefent fenfe employ, But raise thy nobler hope to future joy. Though Heaven fhall vanifh, and the ftars fhall fall, The juft in happy mansions shall remain, ODE ODE TO MORNING. BY MISS PENNINGTON. HAIL, AIL, rofeate Morn! returning light! Reluctant yields her fway; And, as the quits the dappled fkies, O'er tufted meads gay Flora trips; Her head with rofe-buds crown'd: The dew-drops, daughters of the Morn, And all the broider'd vales; Their voice to thee the linnets raise, While Nature, now in lively veft Each tributary plain; While blooming flowers, and blossom❜d trees, Exult beneath thy reign; Shall I, with drowsy poppies crown'd, ز Ah, Ah, no!--Through yon embowering grove, And own thy chearful fway! For fhort-liv'd are thy pleasing powers: And we no more shall trace Thy dimpled cheek and brow ferene; So in life's youthful bloomy prime, But, by fome unexpected blow, And mourn them when too late! ON AN URN, DUG UP AT NORTH ELMHAM IN NORFOLK, IN AN OLD ROMAN BURIAL GROUND. Nor will the sparkling atoms fhow A Clodius or a Guelph': Vain fearch! if here the fource thou'dft know Of nobles or thyself. The The mould will yield no evidence, By which thou may'ft divine, If lords or beggars iffued thence, And fill'd the ancient line. Learn then the vanity of birth, All are but made of common earth, Bid Avarice and Ambition view Hafte! lift thy thoughts from earthly things And leave that groveling pride to kings, Let Virtue be thy radiant guide, To know what letters fpelt my name, An heap of duft is all I am, And all that thou shalt be.' Go now, that heap of duft explore, 3 X THE THE SUN-FLOWER AND THE IVY. BY DR. LANGHORNE. S duteous to the place of prayer, A within the convent's lonely walls, The holy fifters still repair, What time the rofy morning calls: So fair each morn, fo full of grace, The flower of Phoebus turned her face And where, along the rifing fky, Her God in brighter glory burn'd, Still there her fond obfervant eye, And there her golden breast she turn'd. When calling from their weary height But foon as Night's invidious fhade Such duty in a flower display'd The holy fifters fmil'd to fee; Forgave the pagan rites it paid, And lov'd it's fond idolatry. But |