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That Fortune gives enough to none,
Yet far too much to many a one,
Is, by experience, proved to be
An undisputed verity.
What pity that this maxim sage,
Doth not our practice more engage!
We're apt enough, in theory,
To grant the thing a truth to be;
But when we bring it to the trial,
Too often give a flat denial.

And hence, alas ! no doubt, arise
The heaviest of our miseries.
Not satisfied with present store,
We sigh, and wish, and hope for more ;
Not thinking, that though more we get,
We still shall sigh, consume, and fret.
Happy are they who live content,
With blessings such as Heaven hath sent;
For high or low, for rich or poor,
This feeling is a certain store,-
To know, that Providence divine,
Does nought but for a wise design:
Nor stations, in a lower place,
Those who might well a higher grace;
Except for reasons wise and good,
Were they by mortals understood.
Since, in this dark, imperfect state,
The veil we cannot penetrate,
Which from our view conceals the laws
Enacted by the GREAT FIRST CAUSE,

To govern in this world below;
It is enough for us to know,
(Nor let us e'er the maxim slight)
This truth,—“Whatever is,-is right.”
My reader, whether low or great,
Strive to improve thy present state ;
Not by deep cares thy wealth increase,
But by a life of virtuous peace.
In all things ever do thy best,
And fearless leave to Heav’n the rest :
Then mayst thou be supremely blest!

A CURATE of a country vill,
Whom Fortune treated somewhat ill,
In letting him remain so long
Amid the undistinguished throng,
Beholds at last his wishes granted,
And gets the living that he wanted ;-
A village where, remote from strife
And discontent, some years of life

He'd happily passed ; and now with pleasure
Could call his own—this wished-for treasure.
With joy elate, he mounts the back
Of Loiterfoot, his sober hack;
And goes along with gentle pace,
To see the newly given place.
The day was beautiful and warm,
And all conspired his eye to charm :
The early lark was soaring high,
And with sweet warbling filled the sky;
While every bush and brake around,
With melody responsive sound.
Through many a fair enamelled mead,
The lambs in sportive courses speed,
In happy ignorance of the fate
That doth their harmless race await;
While, midst the deeply shaded trees,
Is heard sweet Zephyr's whispering breeze;
And, ever and anon, the doye
Utters its soothing notes of love!

Our Vicar's features well display His pleasure at a scene so gay; And often to the vaulted skies He grateful lifts his tearful eyes. Descending through a lowly dale, Where thick set trees exclude the gale, Whose leafy boughs of towering height Entwine, and intercept the light; And many a lengthening avenue, From various points attracts the view, Whose arches form a lofty dome, Aping the abbey's cloistered gloom ;He slowly paces on the road, In solemn meditative mode, Until, emerging from the wood, On Hangman Hill our Vicar stood. On Hangman Hill! sure ne'er a name, (Howe'er tradition proves her claim,) Was more unaptly used than here, Where nought but smiling scenes appear!

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