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Attend the counfel often told!

Too often told in vain!

Learn that best art, the art to hold
And lock the lover's chain :
Gamefters to little purpose win,
Who lofe again as fast;

Though beauty may the charm begin,
'Tis fweetnefs makes it laft.

A MORAL PICTURE.

ALL hail to thee! thou peaceful lone retreat !
Welcome this rude uncultivated fpot!

Where hofpitality has fix'd her feat,

In humble poverty's fequefter'd cot.

Those barren hills that bound yon dreary rocks,
That folitary stream meand'ring flow;

This little pasture, and the scanty flocks,
Have charms which opulence may never know.

By fervile tribes and fortune's minions fcorn'd, Remote from crowds, on schemes of grandeur bent, Here fimple Nature, fweetly unadorn'd,

Dwells with her handmaids, Virtue and Content.

Within this lowly hut, whofe tottering roof
Seems juft departing from its time-worn thatch:
A gen'rous pair, compaffion's nobler proof,
For ev'ry trav'ler lift the friendly latch.
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Tho

Tho' fmall their income, ample is their mind,
With few poffeffions they've abundant wealth;
In Nature's bounteous lap they daily find
Life's choiceft bleffings, Innocence and Health.

Together once they trod its early stage,
Together now they journey down the vale ;
Paft fcenes of youth endear approaching age,
And waft them onward with a gentle gale.

One beauteous maid, dear pledge of nuptial love,
With artless prattle ev'ry care beguiles;

She, while her parents cherish and improve,
Chears all their thoughtful hours with infant fmiles.

For her alone they wear a fhort-liv'd gloom,
Her future weal till anxious to secure;
Content, when fummon'd to their final doom,

To leave her honeft, tho' they leave her poor.

There the mild tranfports of the focial hour,
Forbid each ill completed wish to roam,
Beft pleas'd to feek retirement's halcyon bow'r,
And rear their ripening progeny at home.

Approach this rural fcene, ye little great,
Ye ever roving, ever thoughtless crew,
Sufpend awhile magnificence and state,
To learn contentment from the happy few.

Come

Come too, ye cruel, unrelenting fair,

Who from your children banish Nature's friend, Here view the pattern of maternal care,

And while contemplating that pattern, mend.

Come, wearied indigence, forget thy woes,
This faithful cottage harbours no disguise;
Here, undisturb'd, enjoy a calm repose,

And tafte that comfort which the world denies.

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY

AGED EIGHTEEN.

In vain our tears, lamented maid, are shed,

In vain with fighs we mourn thine early doom; of woe can never reach the dead,

The

pangs

Or pierce the filent manfions of the tomb; Yet facred fhade, the tributary figh

Which friendship pays, as due to thee, receive; While 'tis the lot of worth like yours to die,

It must be nature's privilege to grieve.

Thy tender bofom is no longer warm,

Thy cheeks will glow with blushes now no more ;
For death, alas! has triumph'd o'er a form
Defign'd to conquer all the world before.

Hence mortals learn, this truth by heav'n defign'd,
How frail is life, how fhort the present state;

And know, that all the virtues of the mind,
Can ne'er exempt us from the stroke of fate.

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Then

Then while kind heav'n prolongs my fleeting breath,

Thy bright example let me strive to be;

That I may meet with joy the stroke of death,
And fhare, bleft faint! eternal blifs with thee.

AN EPITAPH

ON

AN AMIABLE YOUNG LADY.

As fhe was once,

few of her fex you'll fee, As fhe is now, the brightest maid must be; She liv'd to die, who dying yet fhall live, While virtue, piety or love furvive;

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Her eyes on all around diffus'd delight,

And nothing but her goodness fhone more bright,
Beauty to virtue gave a foftening grace,

And virtue added beauty to her face;
She prais'd all worth unconfcious of her own,
And thought whoe'er had merit she had none;
Her ufe of books th intent of reading fhew'd,
Beyond the clofet practically good;

Her life for living was the jufteft plan,

She charm'd as woman, and fhe thought as man*.
Fair reader learn, perfection is deny'd
To the most fair, for faireft Marcia dy d.

*Praif's on tombs are trifles va'nly spent,

A man's good name is his best monument.

EPITAPH

EPITAPH ON MISS DRUMMOND,

DAUGHTER OF THE ARCHBISHOP OF YORK.

BY MR. MASON.

HERE fleeps what once was beauty, once was grace;
Grace, that with fenfe and tenderness combin’d,
To form the harmony of foul and face,

Where beauty shines the mirror of the mind.

Such was the maid, who in the morn of youth,
In virgin innocence, in nature's pride,

Had with each art, which owes its charms to truth,
Sunk in her fathers' fond embrace, and died.

He weeps! O, venerate the holy tear!

Faith lends her aid to eafe affliction's load:

The parent mourns his child upon the bier ;
The Christian yields an angel to his God.

CONSOLATORY VERSES.

ADDRESSED BY MRS. PILKINGTON TO HER HUSBAND.

No more, lov'd partner of my foul,

At disappointments grieve;
Can flowing tears our fate controul,
Or fighs our woes relieve?

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