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The Dog unable longer to refrain,
Gaz'd at the Hare,
Who caus'd his care,
Jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, and bit again.
At length, when he had clear'd away the reft,
The fated fpoiler finish'd on the breast.
Then having made a hearty meal,
He careless turn'd upon his heel,
Nor thought of asking “What's to pay?"
But fcamper'd at his ease away;
Perhaps to find fome four-foot fair,
And tell the story of the Hare.
And here fome Sage, with moral fpleen, may say,
"This HAYMAN fhould have driv'n the Dog away,
"Th' effects of Vice the blameless fhould not bear,
"And folks who are not drunkards lofe their Hare."
All this, we grant, is very true-
But in this giddy world how few
To Virtue's heights fublimely move,
Relinquishing the things they love.
Not fo unfafhionably good,
Our waggish Painter laughing stood,
In hopes more fport to find;
Difpos'd to keep in view his game,
And with th' ambitious Thane exclaim,
“ The greatest is behind.”
Befides, he knew, whate'er the plan
That tempts the fond pursuits of Man,
Though pleasure may the course attend,
The Wife are heedful of the end.
Hence, though of mirth a lucky store,
So aptly tumbled in his way,
Yet fill he linger'd after more,
And thus he said, or seem'd to say:
"How will the people fret and foold,
"When they the bony wreck behold! "And how the drunken rogue will stare, "When firft he fees what was the Hare!
"The denoument muft needs be droll-
""Twere folly not to fee the whole."
Prefuming thus on future pleasure,
HAYMAN kept poft to wait the fleeper's leisure.
At length our Porter's flumber o'er,
He jogged on, tott'ring as before;
Unconscious any body kind
Had eas'd him in his load behind.
Now on the houses turn'd his eye,
As if his journey's end were nigh,
Then read the paper in his hand,
And made a stand-
HAYMAN drew near, with eager mein,
To mark the clofing of the scene,
Expecting ftrait a furious din,
His features ready for a grin.
And now we need but mention one thing more,
To fhew how well he must have lik'd the whim,
Though drunk, our Porter hit at last the door,
And HAYMAN found the Hare was fent to HIM.
A wife old Proverb fays, "To others do,
"E'en as you would those others should to you-"
Now had our Painter mark'd this rule with care,
He, not the Dog, had din'd upon the Hare.
Sung at the Blind Asylum, Liverpool.
ARK! Sifters, hark! that bursting sigh,
It iffu'd from fome feeling heart ;—
Some pitying ftranger fure is nigh ;-
Tell us, oh! tell us who thou art.
Sad is the lot the fightless know,
We feel indeed, but ne'er complain,
Here gentle toils relieve our woe;
Hark, hark, that piteous figh again.
If breath'd for us those heaving fighs,
May Heav'n, kind ftranger, pity thee!
If farting tears fuffufe thine eyes,
Those tears, alas! we cannot fee.
But ev'ry figh, and ev'ry tear,
And ev'ry boon thy hand has given,
All in full luftre fhall appear,
Recorded in the books of Heaven.
VERSES on an African Woman, whofe favorite Boy was kidnapped by the Crew of a Boat: The Sailors, moved by the Distress of the Mother, would have restored the Child; but the Mate, more judicious, chofe to retain him, in hopes that the Diftrefs of the Mother would induce her to become a voluntary Slave rather than part with him.
didft thou hear in
The moving tale the Captain told?
Go, then, and heap the fordid gain,
And fell thy fellow Men for Gold!
Yet, when the dingy Mother rov'd
With eager ftep, and fought her Child, E'en Sailors, ftern of heart, were mov'd With her fad moan and gestures wild.
"Give her the Boy, poor fool!" they cry'd: Why agonize a tender mind?"
"Harpoon'd, harpoon'd!" the Mate reply'd: "Slack fail;-fhe'll not be long behind.”
'Twas fo;-fhe kiss'd her Children dear, Beckon'd the boat across the wave
Yielded herself (to fhare the tear
Of her loft Boy)-—a willing Slave!
HOU, dear companion of the wife,
Serene promoter of their joys
By pleasure without fting,
Thou great prefervative of health,
Thou gem beyond all pomp of wealth!
To thee I humbly fing.
See, where the rose adorns the cheek,
Where all the modest virtues speak
A fecret, peaceful joy;
No baneful viands load their board,
What Nature fimpleft doth afford
They ufe-but not destroy.
Gouts, gravels, headachs, all attend
On luxury, that woeful fiend,
That bane of human bliss;
But those whose sumptuous tables' fpread With season'd meats, wine sparkling red, Too feldom think of this.
A jovial Bacchanalian core,
A flowing bowl, a midnight splore,
At diftant view may charm,
But fage experience tells the wife,
Their falfe allurements to defpife,
And fhun their fatal harm.
Mark the infatuated wretch,
Once gayeft at the deep debauch,
Whom dire diseases pine,
What keen remorse must cut him through
When Temp'rance rises to his view,
All beauteous and divine?
O Temperance! thou Heaven-born maid!
Be thou my goddess and my guide,
My guardian and reward,
Teach me to relish fimple joy,
And from temptations, which deftroy,
Be thou my fhield and guard.
And gay fantaftic Humour heave a figh;
Let no unhallow'd hand approach the bier,
Where low in death his facred reliques lie.
BURNS, bleft with native vigour, ftruck the lyre:
Each heart, affenting, felt the magic found;
To foothe the foul the pleafing notes confpire;
From hill and dale the heav'nly notes rebound.
Alive to joy, while joy was on the wing;
To playful mirth, to humour void of art;
'Twas Nature's felf that taught her bard to fing
The fong of joy pour'd genuine from the heart.
For Genius gone, let Scotia melt in tears;
Her darling Son no more shall soothe her woes,
No more gay hope excite-dispel her fears,
Or tuneful fing her forrows to repose.
The foul of harmony, the plaintive ftrain,
Fall fweetly pleafing on the ravifh'd ear.
Nor let unmov'd the hardeft heart remain :-
In filence drop the foftly trickling tear.
See where the pledges fweet of mutual love
Are left in pinching penury to pine:
O! if ye hope fweet mercy from above,
Let mercy fweet, to gen'rous deeds incline.
A widow's woes, a mother's tears revere,
And helpless babes, their father now no more:
The fight of these, alas! belov'd and dear,
His dying breast with bitter anguifh tore.
His Jeanie's woes, his helpless babes forlorn,
The profpe&t dire of penury and want,
The infolent contempt, the haughty scorn,
The look difdainful, and the bitter taunt:
Thefe, from the unfeeling never cease to fall
With all their weight upon the wretched head;