Such are the vows, the facrifice I give;
Accept the vow, and bid the fuppliant live:
From each terreftrial bondage fet me free ;
Still every wish that centers not in thee;
Bid my fond hopes, my vain difquiets, cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.
If the foft hand of winning pleasure leads
By living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads,
When all is fmiling, tranquil, and ferene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering fcene,
Oh! teach me to elude each latent fnare,
And whifper to my fliding heart-beware !
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.
If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray,
Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way,
Still let my steady foul thy goodness fee,
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Refign'd to die, or refolute to live;
Prepar'd to kiss the fceptre or the rod,
While GOD is feen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name, emblazon'd high
With golden letters on the illumin'd sky;
Nor lefs the myftic characters I fee
Wrought in each flower, infcrib'd in every tree;
In every
leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in fhady folitudes I walk,
With thee in bufy crowded cities talk,
In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes fhall animate my drooping foul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears controul :
Thus fhall I reft, unmov'd by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms;
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then when the laft, the clofing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my fwimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I ftand, and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look ferene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.
To the Memory of Major Alderton, who was twice run thro' the body, and once shot: who, for bravery, charity, and generofity, few equall'd, and none excell'd.
O Death, the old Stager,
Hath trip'd up the Major:
But who fuch a pusher could parry?
He twice ran him thro',
Before it would do;
But now, he's as dead as old Harry.
Hodge and the Razor-seller.
Fellow in a market town,
Moft mufical, cry'd razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly feem'd wond'rous cheap,
And for the money, quite a heap,
As ev'ry man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard :
Poor Hodge, who fuffer'd by a broad black beard,
That feem'd a fhoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
This rafcal ftole the razors, I fuppofe.
"No matter if the fellow be a knave, "Provided that the razors Shave;
"It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune went, Smiling in heart and foul content,
And quickly foap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a difh or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!-then the reft he try❜d-
All were impoftors-" Ah," Hodge figh❜d!
"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and wine'd, and stamp'd, and swore;
Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry
faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.
His muzzle, form'd of oppofition ftuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lofe its ruff:
So kept it-laughing at the fteel and fuds:
Hodge, in a paffion, ftretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile CHEAT that fold the goods.
"Razors! a damn'd, confounded dog,
"Not fit to scrape a hog!"
Hodge fought the fellow-found him—and begun :
P'rhaps, Mafter Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
"That people flay themselves out of their lives:
"You rafcal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
"Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
"With razors just like oyster-knives.
"Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
"To cry up razors that can't have?
"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave : "As for the razors you have bought,
"Upon my foul I never thought
"That they would have."
"Not think they'd have!" quoth Hodge with wond'ring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile" to sell !” PETER PINDAR.
On the Death of Tom Osborne the Bookseller, in September, 1766.
F a dull heavy folio, here refts the last page,
It had nothing within it, informing or fage, 'Twas unletter'd and bound up in calf.
An Elegy on a Tallow Candle..
ENSIVE I lay, e'en from the dead of night,
Until the fun his daily course began,
Reflecting on the candle's wafting light,
And moraliz'd the fate of mortal man.
White and unfully'd was that cotton-wick,
When from the chandler firft to me it came;
Behold how black! the greafy drops how thick!
Such colour takes it from imparted flame.
Such is the youth, of manners ftrict and pure,
Till, led by vice, he quits his reason's guide;
By flatt'ry drawn, he stoops to vice's lure,
And from the path of reason wanders wide.
His paffions melt, his manly vigour faints, Nor mourns he aught his former vigour gone; For foul fociety his morals taints,
And Mother Herbert marks him for her own.
The fool who fells his freedom for a fmile,
Or for a ribband barters peace of mind,
Like wafting wicks juft glimmers for a while,
Then dies in fmoke, and leaves a stink behind.
The many perils that ambition wait,
When foaring high, we still the lower fall,
Are but the fnuffers of expiring light,
And Death's the grand extinguisher of all.
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