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Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face:
Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd;
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And with the firmest had the fondest mind;
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refus'd with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caus'd Reflection's sigh;
A friend to Virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd;

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind, To miss one favour, which their neighbours find:) Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd;

He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd:

I mark'd his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning,-though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:-
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,

In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd;
Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that Slander's tongue defied,—
In fact, a noble passion, misnam'd Pride.

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim ; Christian and countrymen were all with him: True to his church he came; no Sunday-shower

Kept him at home in that important hour;
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect,
By the strong glare of their new light direct :-
"On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,
But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze."

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In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain; Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, And feel in that his comfort and his pride.

At length he found, when seventy years were run. His strength departed, and his labour done; When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more, But lost his wife, and saw his children poor: 'Twas then a spark of-say not discontentStruck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:

"Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied,) That in yon House, for ruin'd age, provide, And they are just ;-when young we give you all, And for assistance in our weakness call.. Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, To join your poor, and eat the parish bread? But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, Who gains his plenty by the sons of need; He who, by contract, all your paupers took, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: On some old master I could well depend; See him with joy, and thank him as a friend; But ill on him, who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances who at night may die: Yet help me, Heav'n! and let me not complain Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain."

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew; Daily he plac'd the Workhouse in his view! But came not there, for sudden was his fate, He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage gate.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there:

I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honour'd head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there :-
But he is blest, and I lament no more

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A wise good man contented to be poor.

THE PARTING LOOK.

ONE day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so, "Perhaps he will not sink:”
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;-
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many and the favourite few:
Not one that day did he to mind recal
But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people,—death has made them dear.
He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd.
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest.”
"I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love,-and all was past!

MARY TIGHE.

PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD.

ALLOW'D to settle on celestial eyes, Soft Sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway, From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The Powers of heaven submissively obey. Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes.

Twice, as with agitated step she went,

The lamp, expiring, shone with doubtful gleam, As though it warn'd her from her rash intent; And twice she paus'd, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh; As one just waking from a troublous dream, With palpitating heart and straining eye, Still fix'd with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh.

Oh, daring Muse! wilt thou indeed essay

To paint the wonders which that lamp could show?
And canst thou hope in living words to say
The dazzling glories of that heavenly view?
Ah! well I ween that, if with pencil true

That splendid vision could be well exprest, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew, Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confest.

All imperceptible to human touch,

His wings display celestial essence light;

The clear effulgence of the blaze is such,
The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright,
That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight;

A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years.
Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight,
Each golden curl resplendently appears,

Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears;

Or o'er his guileless front his ringlets bright
Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw,
That front than polish'd ivory more white!
His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow
Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow:
While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews,
(Those lips divine that even in silence know
The heart to touch,) persuasion to infuse,
Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues.

The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep
Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway,
But from their silky veil there seem'd to peep
Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray,
Which o'er his features exquisitely play,
And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light;

Thus through some narrow space the azure day,
Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright,

Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night.

His fatal arrows and celestial bow

Beside the couch were negligently thrown,

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