Here youth and beauty, innocence and love, I joy’d to see, to serve, and to approve: Here honour’d Age to all around did show, That virtue’s paths alone can bliss bestow: Here moral lessons spoke from ev’ry part, And peace and kindness wrote them on my heart. Hoary inhabitants around the place, Whose faithful services obtain’d that grace, ’Mid ev’ry comfort rural life affords, Shower prayers and blessings on its former Lords. To you the young are taught to lift the eye, Mild morning sun of their unclouded sky. Blest in a lot left nothing to desire, Those happy scenes did future hopes inspire, That thus my life in careless ease might run, My age supported by my master’s son; In him, that goodness, and those virtues find, Which grateful numbers meet in you combin’d. Ah! like a changeful vision of the night, Those scenes are fled, and death appals my sight! Where’er I turn, lamented tombs appear, Or parting sails extort the bitter tear! To distant realms the darling child too gone; O guard him heav’n, and let me weep alone! For ev’ry tear, let countless blessings fall On thy sad mother in thy grandsire’s hall! Forgive, fair nymph, the dictates of despair; Grief flies, for comfort, to the tender fair. The good and great, we fondly think have pow’rs, Can charm to ease our sad and anxious hours: Else why to you should I at Fate repine? The friends I mourn, alas! were _doubly_ thine! For their dear sakes, bid lines they priz’d still live, And grant that shelter they no more can give. Yet, the sad verse how should you patronize That wakes up anguish in a heart at ease! For their dear sakes my pray’rs are ever thine, Nor can I more were your protection mine. TO THE PUBLIC. I. From the dull confines of a country shade, A rustic damsel issues forth her lays; There she, in secret, sought the Muse’s aid, But now, aspiring, hopes to gain the bays. II. “Vain are her hopes,” the snarling critic cries; “Rude and imperfect is her rural song.” But she on public candour firm relies, And humbly begs they’ll pardon what is wrong. III. And if some lucky thought, while you peruse, Some little beauty strike th’ inquiring mind; In gratitude she’ll thank th’ indulgent Muse, Nor count her toil, where you can pleasure find. IV. Upon your voice depends her share of fame, With beating breast her lines abroad are sent: Of praise she’ll no luxuriant portion claim; Give but a little, and she’ll rest content. _POEMS._ TO HOPE. I. Hail meek-ey’d maid! of matchless worth! Our best companion here on earth; To thee sole pow’r is giv’n, T’ illume our dark and dreary way, As through life’s mazy path we stray, And bend our steps to heav’n. ’Tis thine to smooth the rugged vale, To stem the trickling tear; Thy whispers, as the spicy gale, Do drooping trav’llers cheer. Incline thou, to shine now Upon me as I go; Thy favour shall ever Alleviate my wo. II.