That bids defiance to the ftorms of fate:
High blifs is only for a higher ftate.

EPITAPH ON MISS STANLEY.

.

HERE, Stanley! reft, escap'd this mortal ftrife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties ftain,
And fternly try thee with a year of pain:
No more sweet Patience, feigning oft' relief,
Lights thy fick eye, to cheat a parent's grief:
With tender art, to fave her anxious groan,
No more thy bofom preffes down its own:
Now well-earn'd peace is thine, and blifs fincere:
Ours be the lenient, not unpleafing tear!

O! born to bloom, then fink beneath the storm,
To show us Virtue in her fairest form;

To show us artless Reafon's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain;
Th' obedient paffions knowing each their part,
Calm light the head, and harmony the heart!

Yes, we must follow foon, will glad obey,
When a few funs have roll'd their cares away,
Tir'd with vain life, will close the willing eye;
'Tis the great birthright of mankind to die.
Bleit be the bark that wafts us to the fhore
Where death-divided friends fhall part no more!
To join thee there, here with thy duft repofe,
Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.

A PARAPHRASE

ON THE

Latter part of the fixth chapter of St. Matthew. WHEN my breast labours with oppreffive care, And o'er my cheek defcends the falling tear; While all my warring paffions are at ftrife, O! let me liften to the words of Life! Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart, And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart, Think not, when all your scanty stores afford Is spread at once upon the fparing board; Think not, when worn the homely robe appears, While on the roof the howling tempeft bears, What farther fhall this feeble life sustain, And what shall clothe these fhiv'ring limbs again. Say, does not life its nourishment exceed? And the fair body its investing weed?

Behold! and look away your low despair See the light tenants of the barren air; To them nor ftores nor granaries belong, Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song; Yet your kind heavenly Father bends his eye On the least wing that flits along the sky. To him they fing when Spring renews the plain, To him they cry in Winter's pinching reign, Nor is their music nor their plaint in vain :

He hears the gay and the distressful call,
And with unfparing bounty fills them all.
Obferve the rifing lily's fnowy grace,
Obferve the various vegetable race;

They neither toil nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet fee how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king fo fhining! or what queen fo fair

If, ceafelefs, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
If, o'er the fields fuch lucid robes he spreads,
Will he not care for you, ye Faithless! say,
Is he unwife? or, are ye less than they?

TELL

ODE.

I.

ILL me, thou Soul of her I love! Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled, To what delightful world above, Appointed for the happy dead?

11.

Or doft thou, free, at pleasure, roam,
And fometimes fhare thy lover's woe,
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?

III.

Oh! if thou hover'ft round my walk,
While under ev'ry well-known tree
I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee;

IV.

Should then the weary eye of Grief,
Befide fome sympathetic ftream,
In flumber find a fhort relief,

Oh! vifit thou my foothing dream.

ODE.

ONIGHTINGALE! beft poet of the grove, That plaintive ftrain can ne'er belong to thee,

Bleft in the full poffeffion of thy love:

O lend that ftrain, fweet Nightingale! to me.
'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate :
I love a maid who all my bofom charms,
Yet lofe my days without this lovely mate;
Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms.
You, happy Birds! by Nature's fimple laws
Lead your
foft lives, fuftain'd by Nature's fare;
You dwell wherever roving Fancy draws,
And love and fong is all your pleafing care:
But we, vain flaves of intereft and of pride,
Dare not be bleft, left envious tongues fhould blame;
And hence, in vain, I languifh for my bride:
O mourn with me, fweet Bird! my hapless flame.

ODE.

TO SERAPHINA.

THE wanton's charms, however bright,

Are like the false illufive light,
Whose flattering unaufpicious blaze

To precipices oft' betrays;

But that fweet ray your beauties dart,

Which clears the mind and cleans the heart,

Is like the facred Queen of Night,

Who pours a lovely gentle light

Wide o'er the dark, by wanderers bleft,
Conducting them to peace and rest.

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