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He steeled the blunt Batavian's arms
To burst the Iberian's double chain;
And cities rear'd, and planted farms,
Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain.
He, with the generous rustics, sate
On Uri's rocks in close divan;

And winged that arrow sure as fate,
Which ascertained the sacred rights of man.

STROPHE,

Arabia's scorching sands he cross'd,
Where blasted nature pants supine,
Conductor of her tribes adust,

To freedom's adamantine shrine;

And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast !
He snatch'd from under fell oppression's wing;

And taught amidst the dreary waste

The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing.
He virtue finds, like precious ore,
Diffus'd through every baser mould,
Even now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore,
And turns the dross of Corsica to gold;
He, guardian genius, taught my youth
Pomp's tinsel livery to despise :

My lips by him chastised to truth,

Ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies.

ANTISTROPHE.

Those sculptur'd halls my feet shall never tread, Where varnish'd Vice and Vanity combin'd,

To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread;
And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind.
While Insolence his wrinkled front uprears,
And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow;
And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,
Full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow;
Where ever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain,
Presents her cup of stale profession's froth;
And pale Disease, with all his bloated train,
Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth.

STROPHE.

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride,
With either India's glittering spoils opprest;
So moves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride,
That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.
For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,
And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string;
Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay;
And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring;
Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene ;
And Nature, still to all her feelings just,
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene,
Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust.

ANTISTROPHE.

Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts,
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell,
Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts,
And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell.

There Study shall with Solitude recline;
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine
The slender cord that fluttering life sustains:
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door;
And Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread;
And Industry supply the humble store;
And Sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed:
White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night:
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

ANONYMOUS.

SONG.

FROM THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.
DUBLIN 1772.

BELINDA'S sparkling eyes and wit
Do various passions raise;
And, like the lightning, yield a bright,
But momentary blaze.

Eliza's milder, gentler sway,
Her conquests fairly won,
Shall last till life and time decay,
Eternal as the sun.

Thus the wild flood with deaf'ning roar
Bursts dreadful from on high;

But soon its empty rage is o'er,
And leaves the channel dry:

While the pure stream, which still and slow
Its gentler current brings,
Through every change of time shall flow
With unexhausted springs.

EPIGRAM ON TWO MONOPOLISTS.

FROM THE SAME.

Two butchers thin, call'd Bone and Skin,
Would starve the town, or near it;
But be it known to Skin and Bone,

That flesh and blood won't bear it.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

BORN 1729.-DIED 1773.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM was the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. Having written a farce, called "Love in a Mist," at the age of seventeen, he came to Britain as a strolling actor, and was for a long time a performer in Digges's company in Edinburgh, and for many years made his residence at Newcastle upon Tyne. He died at that place, in the house of a benevolent printer, whose hospitality had for some time supported him.

.CONTENT.

A PASTORAL.

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

bare,

As wilder'd and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home:

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,

Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly

round,

And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

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