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ON THE DEATH

O F

L A D Y ANSON.

ADDRESSED TO HER FATHER. 1761.

CROWN'D with honour, bleft with length of days,.
Thou whom the wife revere, the worthy praife;
Juft guardian of those laws thy voice explain'd,
And meriting all titles thou haft gain'd-
Though ftill the fairest from heaven's bounty flow;
For good and great no monarch can bestow:
Yet thus, of health, of fame, of friends poffeft,
No fortune, Hardwicke, is fincerely bleft.
All human-kind are fons of forrow born:
The great must suffer, and the good must mourn.
For fay, can Wisdom's felf, what late was thine,
Can fortitude, without a figh, refign?

Ah, no! when Love, when Reason, hand in hand,.
O'er the cold urn confenting Mourners stand,
The firmeft heart diffolves to foften here:

And Piety applauds the falling tear.

Thofe facred drops, by virtuous weakness shed,
Adorn the living, while they grace the dead:

From tender thought their fource unblam'd they draw,
By Heaven approv'd, and true to Nature's law.

When

She now no change, nor you no fear can feel :
Death, to her fame, has fix'd th' eternal feal!

A FUNERAL HY M N.

YE

I..

E midnight shades, o'er Nature fpread!
Dumb filence of the dreary hour!

In honour of th' approaching dead,

Around your awful terrors pour.
Yes, pour around,

On this pale ground,

Through all this deep furrounding gloom,.
The fober thought,

The tear untaught,,

Those meeteft mourners at a tomb..

II.

Lo as the furplic'd train draw near
To this last manfion of mankind,

The flow fad bell, the fable bier,
In holy mufings wrap the mind!
And while their beam,

With trembling ftream,.

Attending tapers faintly dart;

Each mouldering bone,.

Each fculptor'd stone,

Strikes mute instruction to the heart!

III. Now,

III.

Now, let the facred organ blow,
With folemn paufe, and founding flow
Now, let the voice due meafure keep,
In ftrains that figh, and words that weep
Till all the vocal current blended roll,
Not to deprefs, but lift the foaring foul.

IV.

To lift it in the Maker's praife,

Who first inform'd our frame with breath;
And, after fome few ftormy days,

Now, gracious, gives us o'er to Death.
No King of Fears

In him appears,

Who fhuts the fcene of human woes:

Beneath his fhade

Securely laid,'

The dead alone find true repofe.

V.

Then, while we mingle dust with duft,
To One, fupremely good and wife,
Raife halellujahs! God is just,

And man moft happy, when he dies!
His winter past,

Fair fpring at last

Receives him on her flowery fhore;

Where Pleasure's rofe

Immortal blows,

And fin and forrow are no more!

то

TO MIR A. FROM THE COUNTRY.

A

T this late hour, the world lies hush'd below, Nor is one breath of air awake to blow. Now walks mute Midnight, darkling o'er the plain, Reft, and foft-footed Silence, in his train, To blefs the cottage, and renew the swain. These all-asleep, me all-awake they find; Nor reft, nor filence, charm the lover's mind. Already, I a thousand torments prove, The thousand torments of divided love: The rolling thought, impatient in the breast; The fluttering wish on wing, that will not reft; Defire, whose kindled flames, undying, glow; Knowledge of distant blifs, and present woe; Unhufh'd, unfleeping all, with me they dwell, Children of absence, and of loving well! These pale the cheek, and cloud the chearlefs Swell the swift tear, and heave the frequent figh: These reach the heart, and bid the health decline; And thefe, O Mira! these are truly mine.

eye,

She, whofe sweet smile would gladden all the grove, Whose mind is music, and whose looks are love; She, gentle power! victorious foftnefs!-She, Mira, is far from hence, from love, and me; Yet, in my every thought, her form I find, Her looks, her words-her world of charms combin'd!

Sweetness

Sweetness is her's, and unaffected ease;

The native wit, that was not taught to please.
Whatever foftly animates the face,

The eye's attemper'd fire, the winning grace,
Th' unstudy'd smile, the blush that nature warms,
And all the graceful negligence of charms!
Ha! while I gaze, a thousand ardours rife ;
And my fir'd bofom flashes from my eyes.
Oh! melting mildnefs! miracle of charms!
Receive my foul within thofe folding arms!
On that dear bofom let my wishes reft
Oh! fofter than the turtle's downy breaft!
And fee! where Love himself is waiting near!
Here let me ever dwell- for heaven is here!

A WINTER'S DAY.

Written in a STATE OF MELANCHOLY.

N OW, gloomy foul! look out-now comes thy turn

With thee, behold all ravag'd nature mourn.

Hail the dim empire of thy darling night,

That spreads, flow-fhadowing, o'er the vanquish'd light Look out, with joy; the Ruler of the day,

Faint, as thy hopes, emits a glimmering ray:

Already exil'd to the utmost sky,

Hither, oblique, he turn'd his clouded eye.
Lo! from the limits of the wintery pole,
Mountainous clouds, in rude confufion, roll:

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