Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.

The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door
Ne'er moved in duty to the wand'ring poor;
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And loose from dross, the silver runs below.

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,

But now the child half weaned his heart from God;
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain,
And measured back his steps to earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run?
But God, to save the parent, took the son.
To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go,
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow)
The poor fond parent humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.

But how had all his fortune felt a wreck,
Had that false servant sped in safety back?
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal!
And what a fund of charity would fail!

Thus heaven instructs thy mind: This trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew. Thus looked Elisha, when to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky;

The fiery pomp ascending left the view;
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too.
The bending hermit here a prayer begun,
Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done.
Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place,
And passed a life of piety and peace.

THE SUPERANNUATED LOVER.

DEAD to the soft delights of love,

Spare me, O! spare me, cruel boy;
Nor seek in vain that heart to move,
Which pants no more with amorous joy,

Of old, thy faithful hardy swain,

(When smit with fair Pastora's charms) I served thee many a long campaign, And wide I spread thy conquering arms.

Now mighty god, dismiss thy slave,
To feeble age let youth succeed;
Recruit among the strong and brave,
And kindly spare an invalid.

Adieu, fond hopes, fantastic cares,
Ye killing joys, ye pleasing pains!
My soul for better guests prepares,
Reason restored, and virtue reigns.

But why, my Cloe, tell me why?

Why trickles down this silent tear? Why do these blushes rise and die? Why stand I mute when thou art here?

Ev'n sleep affords my soul no rest,
Thee bathing in the stream I view ;
With thee I dance, with thee I feast,
Thee through the gloomy grove pursue.

Triumphant god of gay desires!
Thy vassal's raging pains remove;
I burn, I burn, with fiercer fires,
Oh! take my life, or crown my love.

THE

PAINS OF MEMORY.

A POEM.

BY ROBERT MERRY, A. M.

Oh, memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;

Thou'rt like the world, the opprest oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo,

And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

GOLDSMITH.

TO THE PUBLIC.

A very excellent poem, called 'THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY,' was some time since published in London, written by Mr. Samuel Rogers, a banker of eminence, and a gentleman of great talents, taste, and learning. In repeated conversations with him on the subject, I however maintained the opinion, that REMEMBRANCE, more frequently occasioned uneasiness than delight, that it was rather the source of regret than satisfaction. To connect, therefore, the arguments I had urged, and the instances

had stated, the following little work was undertaken, and, as it was not unfavourably received in England, I now venture to reprint it in this country, with some few alterations and additions.

PHILADELPHIA,

DEC. 13, 1796. S

R. M.