But oh the thought, that thou art fafe, and he!

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boaft is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretenfions rise-
The fon of parents pafs'd into the skies.

And now, farewell-time, unrevok'd, has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not fought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the fin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy ftill are free,
And I can view this mimic fhew of thee,
Time has but half fucceeded in his theft-

Thyfelf removed, thy power to foothe me left.

TO THE REV. WM. CAWTHORNE UNWIN. 323

TO THE

REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

I.

UNWIN, I fhould but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,

Whofe worth deferves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penn'd,

Thy name omitted in a page

That would reclaim a vicious

age.

II.

An union form'd, as mine with thee,

Not rafhly, or in sport,

May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its fort,

And may as rich in comfort prove,

As that of true fraternal love.

III.

The bud inferted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rofe,

324 TO THE REV. WM. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,

With flow'r as sweet, or fruit as fair,

As if produc'd by nature there.

IV.

Not rich, I render what I

may

I feize thy name in haste, And place it in this firft effay,

Left this fhould prove the laft. "Tis where it should be-in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

V.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame
Than ever blaz'd by art.

No muses on these lines attend,
I fink the poet in the friend.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Printed at the Bottom of the

YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY

OF THE TOWN OF NORTHAMPTON,

November 5, 1793.

Happy the mortal, who has trac'd effects
To their First Cause; caft fear beneath his feet;
And death, and roaring hell's voracious fires.

THANKLESS for favours from on high,
Man thinks he fades too foon;
Though 'tis his privilege to die,
Would he improve the boon:

But he, not wife enough to fcan
His best concerns aright,

Would gladly ftretch life's little span
To ages, if he might

Το

ages, in a world of pain,

Το ages, where he goes

Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,

Enamour'd of its harm!

Strange world, that cofts it fo much smart, And still has pow'r to charm!

Whence has the world her magic pow'r?

Why deem we death a foe?

Recoil from weary life's best hour,

And covet longer woe?

The cause is Confcience-Confcience oft

Her tale of guilt renews:
Her voice is terrible though foft,
And dread of death enfues.

Then, anxious to be longer spar'd,
Man mourns his fleeting breath:
All evils then feem light, compar'd
With the approach of death.

'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear That prompts his wish to stay: He has incurr'd a long arrear,

And muft despair to pay.