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THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. FATHER of all! in ev'ry age,

In ev'ry clime, adord,
By faint, by savage, and by fage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ?
Thou great first-cause, least understood,

Who all my sense confin’d,
To know but this, that thou art good;

And that myself am blind.
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,

To see the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fate,

Left free the human will.
What conscience dictates to be done,

Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more then Hell to Thun,

That, more than Heav'n pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast

For God is paid when man receives ;

T'enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span

Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,

When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand,

Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land

On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace impart,

Still in the right to stay:
If I am wrong, oh teach my heart

To find that better way.


Save me alike from foolish pride,

Or impious discontent,
At ought thy wisdom has deny'd,

Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,

To hide the fault I see ;

I to others fhew,
That mercy shew to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly fo,

Since quicken'd by thy breath;
O lead me wherefo'er I go,

Through this day's life or death.
This day, be bread and peace my lot ;

All else beneath the fun,
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not,

And let thy will be done.
To thee, whose temple is all space;

Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!
One chorus let all beings raise !

All nature's incenfe rife!

A Book, a friend, a song, a glass,

A chaste, yet laughter-loving lass,
To mortals various joys impart,
Inform the sense, and warm the heart.
Thrice happy they, who careless laid
Beneath a kind-embow'ring shade,
With rosy wreaths their temples crown,
In rosy wine their sorrows drown.
Meanwhile the muses wake the lyre,
The graces modest mirth inspire,
Good-natur'd humour, harmless wit;
Well temper'd joys, nor grave, nor light.

Let sacred Venus with her heir,
And dear IANTHE too be there.
Music and wine in concert move
With beauty, and refining love.
There PEACE shall spread her dove-like wing,
And bid her olives round us spring.
There Truth shall reign, a facred guest !
And INNOCENCE, to crown the rest.
Begone, AMBITION, riches, toys,
And splendid cares, and guilty joys!-
Give me a book, a friend, a glass,
And a chaste, laughter-loving lass.


NEGRO SLAVES, IN A GROVE OF PIMENTO. STRANGER! whoe'er thou art, with rev’rence

tread, Lo! these, the silent mansions of the dead ! His life of labour o'er, the wearied Nave Here finds, at length, soft quiet in the grave : View not, with proud disdain, th’unsculptur’d heap, Where injur'd innocence forgets to weep, Not idly deem, although not here are found The folemn aisle and consecrated ground, The spot less facred :o’er the turf-built shrine, Where virtue feeps, resides the power divine.

CONTENT. O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren,

and bare, As wilder'd and weary'd, I roam, A gentle young shepherdefs fees my despair,

And leads me-o'er lawns to her home :

my breast !

Yellow sheares from rich Ceres her cottage had

crown’d, Green ruihes were strew'd on her floor, Her casement, sweet woodbines crept wautonly.

round, And deck'd the fod seats at the door. We fat ourselves down to a cooling repaft,

Fresh fruits! and the cull’d me the best; While thrown from my guard, by some glances The

cast, Love Nily stole into I told my foft wishes; the sweetly reply'd,

(Ye virgins, her voice was divine !) I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny’d,

But take me, fond shepherd--I'm thine.
Her air was so modeft, her aspect so meek!

So fimple, yet sweet, were her charms !
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,

And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,

And if, by yon prattle, the stream, Reclin’d on her bosom, I fink into sleep,

Her iinage still softens my dream.
Together we range o'er the flow rising hills,

Delighted with paftoral views,
Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet diftils,

And point out new themes for my muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did afpire,

The damfel's of humble descent;
The cottager, PEACE, is well known for her fire,

And Mepherds have nam'd her conTENT.

OLD earth, when in a tippling vein,

Drinks torrents of ambrofial rain,
Which the tall trees, by heat oppreft,
Drink from her kind maternal breafi:

Left angry ocean should be dry,
The river gods their stores supply:
The monarch of the glowing day
Drinks large potations from the fea :
And the pale empress of the night
Drinks from his orb propitious light:
All-all things drink-abftemious fage !
Why Thould not we our thirst assuage?

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smild,

And still where many a garden flowergrows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a-year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nore'er had chang'd, nor wilh'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain ; The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending iwept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow’d; The broken foldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of forrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were Pleas’d with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, on their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began,


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