His heart's beft chord was yet in ture, eye beam'd " 'Tis juft, (he faid,) that where thou ly'ft, "The carelefs thepherd boy fhould lie; "Thou dy't, poor fool! for want of food; “I fall, for fuff'ring thee to die. "But, O my master!"-broken-fhort- "But yet, in all my beft,' have I "Without a 'plaint my hardfhips bore; "Rufus!-may all my pangs be past"Mafter!-my fuff'rings are no more. "A warmer couch haft thou to press, "Secure from cramping frofts thy feet; "And could'ft thou boaft fo free a breast, "Thou yet might'ft die a death as sweet. "My trufty dog-that wiftful look "Is all that makes my poor heart heave; "But hie thee home-proclaim me dead, Forget to think-and cease to grieve." 66 So faying, fhrunk the hapless youth Hung watchful o'er his master's clay; He paw'd him with his hard-worn foot, But not a fign of lurking life, Thro' all his frame, he found to creep; [5] He knew not what it was to die, "The cock has crow'd, my mafler, rife." But now the paw, the scratch, the whine, Great grief affail'd his untaught heart, TO HOPE. ROCKLEWOOD. Heav'n-born Hope! beft friend of Mis'ry's child, Oh! deign to vifit one, whofe heart, defpoil'd Long, long have I beneath life's fhades reclin'd, Depriv'd of thee, ah! whither fhall I go? Oh! fave me! fave me! but one fmile beflow, SUBDU'D by Grief, low at thy injur'd shrine, Nor more fhall I at Fate's decrees repine, The primrofe pale, that blooms beneath the thorn, Ev'n so would I, fecure from Fortune's frown, TO CONTENTMENT. BY THE SAME. B Unknown to avarice or lavish glee, ENEATH my lowly roof I'll live at eafe, There joyful fpend the circling year in peace, Divine Contentment! while I dwell with thee. On Alpine hills behold the fun-beat hind, Remote from care, amid his flock repofe, While pleafing dreams of fancy foothe his mind, And light-wing'd Zephyrus around him blows. No thought ambitious fires his tranquil foul, 'Tis mild Contentment that becalms his breast;- SONNET. ROSCOE. Go place the fwallow on yon turfy bed, Much will he struggle, but can never rise; Go raise him even with the daify's head, So oft, through life, the man of pow'rs and worth, Like BURNS, must struggle on the bare-worn earth, Yet fhould the hand of relative, or friend, Go then, ye affluent! go, your hands out-ftretch, And, from defpair's dark verge, oh! raise the woeworn wretch. STR THE COACH AND CART. GUION. IR Dazzle's Coach, in gaudy flate, 77 ...The Cart addrefs'd Thou low-liv'd thing Faugh! what a horrid fcent you bring"Do, pray be gone-no longer hurt My nofe refin'd-with filthy dirt"But t'other day, your horfes' heels "Befpatter'd my new-painted wheels"Begone, thou wretch-go; carry hay, "Your dung, your firaw, your gravel-clay; Keep diftance due, nor dare approach "The prefence of your mafter's Coach." With modeft tone, the Cart reply'd, "Thou gaudy thing! I fpurn thy pride: "Yet, pompous gewgaw! know from me, My labour's the fupport of thee! "Did I not early toil, and late, "Thou foon wouldft drop thy boasted state"Did I not groan beneath manure, "The equipage would not be fure— "And thould I not the mart attend, 66 Thy dignity would have an end "I grant thou haft fome little ufe; |