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Yet not confin'd to rank or place;

Rich, noble, low, or poor ;

We worship figure, mind, or face,

Some secret unknown lure.

Then woman's magic spell admit,

Her fabled Cestus own;

Which makes the Mitre e'en submit,

And triumph o'er the Throne.




“ Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood,
“ The source alike of evil as of good ;
“ From thence the cup of mortal man he fills,
“ Pours out his blessings, or distributes ills."


WHILE Heav'n's high will directs our fate, From rural life to regal State ;

Controls that star, whose sovereign sway,

All from their cradle must obey.

Behold poor man's eventful doom,

How many a hero works the loom !

How many an Euclid in the mine,

For daily bread must delve and pine !

How many a flower remains unblown,
To the possessor quite unknown!

And many a vein of wealthy ore,
Thro' want of culture none explore !

How many a drudge consign'd to trade, Might have embellish’d Oxford's shade ; While many a Poet, lost to fame,

Had rear'd a Pope, or Dryden's name !

How many a driv'ller steers the helm,
How many a bigot sways a realm;
In Freedom's cause, view many a slave,

, And many a title decks a knave.

Last, many a sage in crape and lawn, ,
Appears the ermine to adorn;

Whose elevation as we rue,

Proves the old Swedish Statesman true.*

*“Quam parvâ sapientiâ regitur mundus !"

Oxensteirn to his son, upon the Congress of Westphalia.



And ere again we view these walls,
(Where Friendship's magic smile enthralls ;)
Arrive there may, some awful change,
Beyond e’en thought, or Fancy's range.

In many a fair and blooming face,
The wrinkle will usurp a place;
While many an eye, as noon-day bright,
Must close in everlasting night.

Full many a damsel will be wed,

And blushing to the altar led;

While many a female breast will mourn,

For some fond tie abruptly torn.

There'll many an hour be pass’d with glee,
In pomp, in feast, and revelry;"
Unnumber'd more are doom'd to flow,

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Still they reveal some source of joy,
Some new pursuit, some varnish'd toy;
While Hope, sweet goddess ! lingʻring nigh,
Arrests the tear in ev'ry eye.

The future leave to grave divines,

Who delve in theologic mines;

Content, if we enraptur'd meet,

Again this hospitable seat.

The gen'rous owners frank and true,

Their heart the same we ever knew;

Sincere, benevolent, and kind,

To all our faults and follies blind.

With them forgetting noise and care,
The festive banquet let us share;
And sighing o'er departed friends,
Partake the gifts our Maker sends.

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