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PO E T RY.

The VILLAGE FREEHOLDER.

[From the News Paper, a Poem, by Mr. CRABBE.]:

OR here th' infectious rage for party flops,
N
Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,
And spread their plagues and influenzas round;
The village too, the peaceful, pleasant plain,
Breeds the whig-farmer and the tory-swain;
Brooks' and St. Alban's boaits not, but instead
Stares the Red Rain, and swings the Rodney's head:
Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he
Who owns the little hut that makes him free;
Whose yearly forty thillings buy the smile
Of mightier men, and never waste the while ;
Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate,
A little prop and pillar of the state.

Here he delights the weekly news to con,
And mingle comments as he blunders on;
To swallow all their varying authors teach,
To spell a title, and confound a speech:
Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,
"And claims his nation's licence to abuse ;
Then joins the cry, “ that all the courtly race
Strive but for power, and parley but for place;"
Yet hopes, good man! “that all may still be well,”
And thanks the stars that he's a vote to sell.

While thus he reads or raves, around him wait
A rustic band, and join in each debate;
Partake his manly spirit, and delight
To praise or blame, to judge of wrong or right;
Measures to mend, and minitters to make,
Till all go madding for their country's fake.

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* 1 in high heaven will be ador'd, * Above the stars of God exalt

my

throne;
“ My pow'r mall sacred Sion own,
“ The mount of God's dread presence hail me lord."

Such thy vain threats : Death's dark abode

Yawns to receive the vaunting god.
Those, who thy corse shall ’ınidst the slain behold,

Shall view thee with attentive look :
Is this the man, his thund'ring car who rolld,

That with pale terror kingdoms shook ?
W Who wav'd o'er wasted towns his spear,
Terror and Flight his van, Deftruction in his rear?

Is this the man, whose barb'rous hate
Bound captive monarchs in his galling chain;

While Outrage call'd his tort'ring train,
And Rigor closed the dungeon's ruthless gate ?

How from his high dominion hurld

The spoiler of the ravag'd world!
Kings, monarchs, heroes, warriors of renown,

Who greatly fought their realms to fave,
Each in his house of Death in peace lies down,

With glory in his rock-hewn grave,

Amidit his chiefs, with honours grac'd,
His sword beneath his hcad, his arms beside him plac'd.

But thou shalt lie a thing abhor'd,
A fordid corse among the vulgar lain),

Cloath'd with the carnage of the plain, A loathsome texture by the falchion gor'd.

Shalt thou with honour'd chiefs repose ?

Her jaws 'gainst thee the grave shall close ;
For where portentous thy proud banners wav'd,

Rapine rush'd o'er the wasted land :
Thy country, too, her free-born fons enflav'd

Or slaughter'd, curft thy hostile hand.

So falls the impious tyrant-race,
And fair Renown disdains their hated dust to grace.

The dreadful work of death prepare :
The father's crimes for boundless vengeance call,

And ail the tyrant's sons Mall fall;
Nor branch, nor offspring shall my fury spare,

Left o'er the trembling earth again
Spread the wild horrors of their reign.
No more their haughty tow’rs shall pierce the skies,

And fill the wide world with their fame ;
Against them, faich Jehovah, I will rise,

Will rend from Babylon the name,

Smite from its course her stagnant stream,
Aed o'er its miry gulfs shall clanging fea-news scream.

Thus

Give poets claret, they grow idle foon;
Feed the musician, and he's out of tune ;
But the fick mind, of this disease posless'd,
Has neither chance for cure, nor inter als of rest.

Such powers have things so vile, and they can boast
That those peruse thein who de pise them moit.

The SONG of EXULTATION.

THE

(From Mr. Potter's Oracle concerning Babylon, and the Song of

Exultation, from Isaiah, chap. xiii. xiv.]
HE spoil-gorg'd city is no more ;

The proud oppressor of the nations falls,
Sunk in the dust her towred walls :
Her vanquish'd monarch welters in his gore;

Jehovah from his impious hand

Hath rent the ensign of command,
That iron sceptre, whose impetuous force

Smote empires trembling at his rage.
The Earth exulting views his breathless corse,

And Peace recalls her golden age ;

Chearful burst forth their shouts of joy,
“ Thy furious hand no more shall bleeding realms deftroy."

The lordly Lebanon waves high
The ancient honours of his facred head;

Their branching arms his cedars {pread,
His pines triumphant shoot into the sky:

“ Tyrant, no barb'rous axe invades,

" Since thou art fall'n, our unpierc'd shades."
To meet thee, Hades routes from beneath,

An iron smile his visage wears ;
He calls through all the drear abodes of Death ;

His call each mighty chieftain hears ;

And fceptred kings of empires wide
Rife from their lofty thrones, and thus accost thy pride,

Is this weak form of flirting air
The potent lord that fill'd th' Aflyrian throne ?

Thus are thy vaunted glories gone?
Where thy rich feasts, thy sprightly viols where?

Beneath thee is corruption spread,

And worms the covering of thy bed?
How art thou fall'n, bright star of orient day,

How fallin from thy ætherial height,
Son of the Morning! Thou, whose fanguine ray

Glared terribly a baleful light;

War kindled at the blaze, and wild
Rush'd Slaughter, Havoc rullid, their robes with blood defil'd.

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Thy strong, yet foften'd rapture; foften’d more
When penitence fucceeds to injury;
When, doubting pardon, the meek, pleading eye
On which the soul had once with pleasure dwelt,
Swims in the tear of forrow and repentance.
The faultless mind with treble pity views

The tarnish'd friend, who feels the sting of Mame ;
'Tis then too little barely to forgive ;
Nor can the soul rest on that frigid thought,
But rushing swiftly from her Stoic heights,
With all her frozen feelings melted down
By Pity's genial beams, the finks, distrest,
Shares the contagion, and with lenient hand
Lifts the warm chalice fill'd with consolation.

Yet Friendship’s name oft decks the crafty lip,
With seeming virtue clothes the ruthless soul:
Grief-soothing notes, well feign'd to look like Truth,
Like an insidious ferpent softly creep
To the poor, guileless, unsuspecting heart,
Wind round in wily folds, and finking deep
Explore her facred treasure, bafely heave
Her hoard of woes to an unpitying world ;
First sooths, ensnares, exposes and betrays.
What art thou, fiend, who thus usurp'it ihe form
Of the soft cherub ? Tell me, by what name
The oftentatious call thee, thou who wreck'st
The gloomy peace of sorrow-loving souls ?
Why thou art Vanity, ungenerous fprite,
Who tarnishest the action deem'd fo great,
And of foul-faving effence. But for thee,
How pure, how bright wou'd Theron's virtues Mine;
And, but that thou art incorp'rate with the flame,
Which else wou'd bless where'er its beams illume,
My grateful fpirit had recorded here
Thy splendid seemings. Long I've known their worth.

Ó, 'tis the deepest error man can prove,
To fancy joys disinterested can live,
Indiffoluble, pure, unmix'd with felf;
Why, 'twere to be immortal, 'twere to own
No part but spirit in this chilling gloom.

My soul's ambitious, and its utmost stretch
Wou'd be, to own a friend--but that's deny’d.
Now, at this bold avowal, gaze, ye eyes,
Which kindly melted at my woe-fraught tale :
Start back, Benevolence, and shun the charge ;
Soft bending Pity, fly the tullen phrase,
Ungrateful as it seems. My abject fate
Excites the willing hand of Charity,
The momentary figh, the pitying tear,

And instantanmous act of bounty bland, 1785.

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TO

To misery so kind; yet not to you,
Bounty, or charity, or mercy mild,
The pensive thought applies fair Friendship's name;
That name which never yet cou'd dare exist
But in equality

On Mrs. MONTAGU

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[From the fame Publication.]
HY boast, O arrogant, imperious man,

Perfections so exclusive? are thy powers.
Nearer approaching Deity ? can'ít thou solve
Questions which high Infinity propounds,
Soar nubler flights, or dare immortal deeds,
Unknown to woman, if the greatly dares
To use the powers affign'd her? Active strength,
The boast of animals, is clearly thine ;
By this upheld, thou think it the lesson rare
That female virtues teach; and poor the height
Which female wit obtains. The theme untolds
Its ample maze, for Montagu befriends
The puzzled thought, and, blazing in the eye
Of boldest oppofition, ftrait presents
The soul's best energies, her keenelt powers,
Clear, vigorous, enlighten'd; with firm wing
Swift she o'ertakes his Muse, which spread afar
Its brightest glorics in the days of yore ;
Lo! where she, mounting, spurns the stedfast earth,
And, failing on the cloud of science, bears
The banner of Perfection...
Ask Gallia's mimic sons how strong her powers,
Whom, flush'd with plunder from her Shakspeare's page
She swift detects amid their dark retreats
(Horrid as Cacus in their thievish dens);
Regains the trophies, bears in triumph back
The pilfer'd glories to a wand'ring world.
So Stella boasts, from her the tale I learn’d;
With pride she told it, I with rapture heard.

0, Montagu! forgive me, if I fing
Thy wisdom temper'd with the milder ray
Of soft humanity, and kindness bland :
So wide its influence, that the bright beams
Reach the low vale where mists of ignorance lodge,
Strike on the innate spark which lay iinmers'd,
Thick clogg'd, and almost quench'd in'total night-
On me it fell, and cheer'd my joyless heart.

Unwelcome is the first bright dawn of light
To the dark soul ; impatient, the rejects,

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