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النشر الإلكتروني

When thou, transplanted from thy genial home,
Must find a colder soil and bleaker air,
And trust for safety to a stranger's care;
What character, what turn thou wilt assume
From constant converse with I know not whom ;
Who there will court thy friendship, with what views,
And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;
Though much depends on what thy choice shall be,
Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me,
Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids,
And while the dreadful risk forseen forbids,
Free too, and under no constraining force,
Unless the sway of custom warp thy course,
Lay such a stake upon the losing side,
Merely to gratify so blind a guide?

Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thy heart
Condemns th' unfatherly, th' imprudent part.
Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea,
Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea,
Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay
A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way;
Then, only governed by the self-same rule
Of natural pity, send him not to school.
No-guard him better. Is he not thine own,
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone?
And hop'st thou not (tis every father's hope)
That, since thy strength must with thy years elope,
And thou wilt need some comfort, to assuage
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age,
That then, in recompense of all thy cares,
Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs,
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,
And give thy life its only cordial left?
Aware then how much danger intervenes,
To compass that good end, forecast the means.
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command,
Secure it thine, its key is in thy hand.
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide.

Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place.
But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure
From vicious inmates, and delights impure,
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind (as who can say
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?)
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.

Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand, Pull down the schools-what!-all the schools i' th'

land;

Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms,
Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms?—
A captious question, sir (and yours is one,)
Deserves an answer similar, or none.
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ
(Apprized that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay
Merely to sleep and let him run astray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A sight not much unlike my simile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.
And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepared t' embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better managed, or encouraged less.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS.

OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

orses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining of the disagreeablenem of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues of the parsonage.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burden of my song.

The priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,
When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog,
Along the miry road
Each heart as heavy as a log,
To make their payments good.

In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be expressed,

When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distressed.

Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-
He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come--each makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg
And not to quit a score.

"And how does miss and madam do, The little boy and all?"

"All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye-call ?"

The dinner comes, and down they sit :
Were e'er such hungry folks?
There's little talking, and no wit:
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor

Yet not to give offence or grieve,
Hold up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are du
And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins.
"Come, neighbours, we must wag-
The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost.
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you
In pulpit ne ne shall hear:
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear."

O why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?
A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hast ings, Esq., in the House of Lords.

COWPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers. Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward,

Thon wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers; but silence honoured thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music

sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

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