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No thought of guilt my bofom fours:
Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I faw in halls and towers,

That luft and pride,
The arch-fiend's deareft, darkest powers,
In ftate prefide.

I faw mankind with vice incrufted;
I faw that honour's fword was rufted:
That few for aught but folly lufted;
That he was ftill deceiv'd who trufted
In love or friend;

And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.

In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noify folly,

And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away

My life, and in my office holy

Confume the day.

This rock my fhield when forms are blowing; The limpid ftreamlet yonder flowing Supplying drink; the earth beftowing

My fimple food;

But few enjoy the calm I know in

This defart rude.

Content and comfort blefs me more in
This grot, than 'ere I felt before in

A palace; and with thoughts ftill foaring

To God on high.

Each night and morn with voice imploring

This wish I figh:

"Let me, O Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful throb, or loofe defire;

And when I die,

Let me in this belief expire,

To God I fly!"

Stranger, if, full of youth and riot,
As yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet,

Thou haply throw'ft a scornful eye at

The Hermit's prayer:

But if thou haft a caufe to figh at

Thy fault, or care:

If thou haft known falfe love's vexation,
Or haft been exil'd from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,

And makes thee pine;

Oh! how muft thou lament thy station,

And envy mine!

VA

TO A MOTH,

FLUTTERING ABOUT A CANDLE.

VAIN flutt'ring infect, pageant of an hour,
Come, let me thwart thy felf-deftructive will ;

Short are the pleasures in thy little pow'r,

Yet thou wilt make them even shorter still.

How apt an emblem of mistaken Man,

When fwells each vein with youth's empurpled tide, I see the semblance to my kindred clan,

And own the folly fhame would gladly hide.

Both are attracted by an empty blaze;

Pleafure to Man, what flame to thee supplies;

Each idly flutters in illusive rays,

Then falls a victim, and repentant dies.

FOR

IMITATION OF HORACE,

BOOK XVI. ODE 2.

BY MR. HASTINGS,

On his passage from Bengal to England.

OR ease the harrass'd seaman prays,
When equinoctial tempests raise
The Cape's surrounding wave;

When, hanging o'er the reef, he hears
The cracking maft, and fees or fears,
Beneath, his watʼry grave.

For eafe, the flow Mahratta fpoils,
And hardier Sic erratic toils,
While both their ease forgo;
For eafe, which neither gold can buy,
Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie
The cover'd heart, bestow;

For neither gold nor gems, combin'd,
Can heal the foul, or suff'ring mind:
Lo! where their owner lies;
Perch'd on his couch diffemper breathes,
And care, like fmoke, in turpid wreathes
Round the gay ceiling flies.

He who enjoys, nor covets more,
The lands his father held before,
Is of true blifs poffefs'd:

Let but his mind unfetter'd tread,
Far as the paths of knowledge lead,
And wife, as well as bleft.

No fears his

of mind annoy, peace Left printed lies his fame destroy,

Which labour'd years have won
Nor pack'd committees break his reft,
Nor av'rice fends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the fun.

Short is our fpan; then why engage
In fchemes, for which man's tranfient age,
Was ne'er by fate defign'd;
Why flight the gifts of nature's hand,
What wand'rer from his native land
E'er left himself behind?

The reftlefs thought and wayward will,
And difcontent attend him ftill,

Nor quit him while he lives;
At fea, care follows in the wind,
At land, it mounts the pad behind,
Or with the poft-boy drives.

He who would happy live to-day,
Muft laugh the present ills away,
Nor think of woes to come;
For come they will, or foon or late,
Since mix'd at best is man's estate,
By heaven's eternal doom.

To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd,
With lacks enrich'd, with honour's crown'd,
His valour's well-earn'd meed;

Too long, alas! he liv'd to hate
His envy'd lot, and dy'd too late,
From life's oppreffion freed.

An early death was Elliot's doom:
I faw his op'ning virtues bloom,
And manly fenfe unfold;

Too foon to fade! I bade the ftone
Record his name 'midft hordes unknown,
Unknowing what it told.

To thee, perhaps, the fates may give,
I wish they may, in health to live,

Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields;
Thy vacant hours in mirth to fhine,
With thefe, the mufe already thine,
Her prefent bounties yields.
For me, O fhore, I only claim
To merit, not to feek for fame,

The good and juft to please;
A ftate above the fear of want,
Domeftic love, heav'n's choiceft grant,
Health, leifure, peace, and cafe.

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE BLEEDING ROCK.

BY MISS HANNAH MORE.

HERE beauteous Belmont rears its modeft brow,
To view Sabrina's filver waves below,
Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen,
The fame sweet form, the fame enchanting mien,
With all that fofter elegance of mind
By genius heighten'd, and by tafte réfin'd.
Yet early was the doom'd the child of care,
For love, ill-fated love fubdu'd the fair.
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finish'd face?
Or what each beauty on the heav'n-born mind,
The foul fuperior, or the tafte refin❜d?
Beauty but ferves deftruction to infure,
And fenfe, to feel the pang it cannot cure.
Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand,
And many a fuitor came from many a land.
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth afpir'd,
And diftant fuitors all in vain admir'd.
Averfe to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover fhe refus'd fhe made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore fo mild a face,
More like acceptance feem'd it than difgrace.

Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains,
Was wont to vifit Belmont's blooming plains.
Who has not heard that Polydore could throw
Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe?
How leave the fwifteft at the race behind,
How mount the courfer, and out-ftrip the wind?

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