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felf-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it.
"ARE we not here now, continued the corporal, and "are we not" (dropping his hat plump upon the ground "and paufing, before he pronounced the word) gone! " in a moment?" The defcent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it. -Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand feemed to vanish from under it, it fell dead, the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corps,-and Sufannah burst into a flood of tears.
LL our praises why should Lords engross?
Rife, honest Muse! and fing the Man of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarfe applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the fkies in ufelefs columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whofe caufeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whofe feats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rife?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread :
He feeds yon alms-houfe, neat, but void of state,
and want fit fmiling at the gate:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour and the old who reft.
fick? The MAN of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives. Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile attornies, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo wish, but want the power to do!
Oh fay, what fums that gen'rous hand fupply?
What mines, to fwell that boundless charity?
Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man poffefs'd-five hundred pounds a year.
Blush Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!
Ye little ftars! hide your diminish'd rays.
And what! no monument, infcription, ftone?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown!
Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame,
Will never mark the marble with his Name:
Go fearch it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between ;
Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.
EAR yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modeft manfion rofe.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And paffing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or feek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More fkill'd to raise the wretched than to rife.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain,
The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending fwept his aged breaft;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay;
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhew'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits, or their faults to fcan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Befide the bed where parting life was laid,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion ftood. At his controul,
Despair and anguish fled the ftruggling foul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his laft faultering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to fcoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honeft ruftic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready fmile a parent's warmth expreft,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ferious thoughts had rest in Heav'n.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorm,
Tho' round its breaft the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal funfhine fettles on its head.
ONTENTMENT, parent of delight,
So much a ftranger to our fight,
Say, goddess, in what happy place
Mortals behold thy blooming face;
Thy gracious aufpices impart,
And for thy temple choose my heart.
They, whom thou deignest to inspire,
Thy science learn, to bound defire;
By happy alchymy of mind
They turn to pleasure all they find;
They both difdain in outward mien
The grave and folemn garb of Spleen,
And meretricious arts of drefs,
To feign a joy, and hide diftrefs:
Unmov'd when the rude tempeft blows,
Without an opiate they repose;
And cover'd by your shield, defy
The whizzing shafts, that round them fly:
Nor meddling with the gods' affairs,
Concern themselves with diftant cares;
But place their blifs in mental rest,
And feaft upon the good poffefs'd.
Forc'd by foft violence of pray'r,
The blithfome goddess fooths my care;
I feel the deity infpire,
And thus fhe models my defire.
Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid,
Annuity fecurely made,