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O veteran chaw, thy fibres savoury strong,
Whilst ought remain’d to chew thy master chewd, Then cast thee here, when all thy juice was gone,
Emblem of selfish man's ingratitude !
A happy man, O cast-off quid, is he
Who, like as thou, has comforted the poor. Happy his age, who knows himself like thee,
Thou didst thy duty, man can do no more.
To a FRIEND
Settled in the COUNTRY.
Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given,
field Sweet solace to the wearied mind must yield; And yonder wide circumference of heaven,
At morn or when the day-star rides on high, Or when the calm and mellowed light of even
Softens the glory of the western sky,
Spreads only varied beauties to thine eye. And when these scenes, these lovely scenes so fair,
Hill, vale, and wood, are hidden from thy sight, Still thro' the deepness of the quiet air,
Canst thou behold the radiant host of night,
And send thy spirit thro' the infinite, Till lofty contemplation end in prayer.
Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given, I not unenvying shall recall to mind, In that foul town, by other fate confined, Where never running brook, nor verdant field,
Nor yonder wide circumference of heaven, Sweet solace to the wearied soul can yield.
The remembrance of Youth is a sigh.
Man hath a weary pilgrimage
As thro' the world he wends;
Still discontent attends.
Upon the road before,
The days that are no more.
When first Remembrance in the soul
Awakes her infant power, "Tis but to teach the hard controul
That binds the present hour.
From strange restraints and idle rules,
The childish thought will roam ;
The comforts of his home.
The emancipating hour is come,
The long-expected years!
The slave of hopes and fears.
To scenes so seeming fair ;
reach the wish'd-for seat, And when he thinks his joys compleat,
Find Disappointment there.
Maturer manhood now arrives,
And other thoughts, come on ; But with the baseless hopes of youth
Its generous warmth is gone. Cold calculating cares succeed; The timid thought, the wary deed,
The dull realities of truth. Back on the past he turns his eye, Remembering with an envious sigh
The faery dreams of youth.
So reaches he the latter stage
With feeble step and slow;
That all is vanity below.
Its idle hopes are o’er ;