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On the light rills, that warble, as the wind, Gales hollow-roaring, hoarse resounding woods, Rude hanging rocks, dread shades, and dashing floods,

Exalt, and soothe, and harmonize the mind.

Then every rude emotion sinks to rest,
In gentler flow the tides of passion roll,
A solemn calm steals o'er the soften'd breast,
And philosophic transports swell the soul.

O'er Nature's ample field her fancy strays,
Thence her rich store of form and colour brings,
With curious art combined a thousand ways,
And paints her beauteous images of things.
Now wantons wild in aromatic groves,
Now the lone heath and howling forest roves,
Pensive and listening to the sighs of woe;
Now sits sublime on Alpine heights enthroned,
Mid the red blaze of lightnings flashing round,
And hears redoubled thunders roll below.

Now Horror's shade she seeks, and central cave,
Her ghastly visaged ghosts and floods of fire,
Now joys in empyrean light to lave,

And catch new rapture from the Seraph's lyre.

Then welcome, Night! thou awful pleasing fair! While the moon seems along the clouds to sail, Which round her throne like fleecy flakes appear,

And now half hide her radiance, now reveal.

Pride wants the Sun her plumage to display ;
A soul sublime from no material ray

Draws her rich splendours, or imbibes her joy; Reason's clear beam and Virtue's flame divine Shall with their own eternal glories shine,

When worlds and suns in endless darkness die.

And thou, Great Father! guard my sleeping hours, Bid the wild war of striving passions cease, Compose in pleasing harmony my powers,

And o'er my throbbing bosom breathe thy peace. Thrice-happy souls who thy protection share! Virtue in thy parental arms at rest Securely lies, as stranger yet to fear

The suckling slumbers on its mother's breast. Spirits, that hurl the thunders down the sky, Or drive the chariot of the storms on high,

And shake o'er trembling Guilt the fiery rod, Oft bid their vengeful rage the pious spare; Even flames, amid the general wreck, revere And pass untouch'd those temples of their God.



LET others hail the rising sun,

I bow to that whose course is run,
Which sets in endless night;

Whose rays benignant bless'd this isle,
Made peaceful nature round us smile
With calm but cheerful light.

No bounty past provokes my praise,
No future prospects prompt my lays,



From real grief they flow;

I catch the' alarm from Britain's fears,
My sorrows fall with Britain's tears,
And join a nation's woe.

See, as you pass the crowded street,
Despondence clouds each face you meet,
All their lost friend deplore:

You read in every pensive eye,
You hear in every broken sigh,
That Pelham is no more.

If thus each Briton is alarm'd
Whom but his distant influence warm'd,
What griefs their breasts must rend,
Who, in his private virtues bless'd,
By Nature's dearest ties possess'd
The husband, father, friend!

What! mute, ye bards?—no mournful verse, No chaplets to adorn his hearse,

To crown the good and just?

Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You seek no pensions from the tomb,
No laurels from the dust.

When power departed with his breath,
The sons of Flattery fled from death:
Such insects swarm at noon.
Not for herself my Muse is grieved,
She never ask'd nor e'er received
One ministerial boon.

Hath some peculiar strange offence
Against us arm'd Omnipotence,

To check the nation's pride?
Behold the' appointed punishment!
At length the vengeful bolt is sent,
It fell-when Pelham died.

Uncheck'd by shame, unawed by dread,
When Vice triumphant rears her head,
Vengeance can sleep no more;
The evil angel stalks at large,
The good submits, resigns his charge,
And quits the' unhallow'd shore.

The same sad morn* to church and state
(So for our sins 'twas fix'd by fate)
A double stroke was given;
Black as the whirlwinds of the north
St. John's fell genius issued forth,
And Pelham fled to heaven!

By angels watch'd in Eden's bowers,
Our parents pass'd their peaceful hours,
Nor guilt nor pain they knew;
But on the day which usher'd in
The hell-born train of mortal sin,
The heavenly guards withdrew.

Look down, much honour'd shade, below!
Still let thy pity aid our woe;

Stretch out thy healing hand;
Resume those feelings which on earth
Proclaim'd thy patriot love and worth,
And saved a sinking land.

Search, with thy more than mortal eye,
The breasts of all thy friends: descry

The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of the late lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham.

What there has got possession.
See if thy unsuspecting heart,

In some for truth mistook not art,
For principle profession.

From these, the pests of humankind,
Whom royal bounty cannot bind,
Protect our parent king:
Unmask their treachery to his sight,
Drag forth the vipers into light,

And crush them ere they sting.

If such his trust and honours share,
Again exert thy guardian care,

Each venom'd heart disclose; On Him, on Him our all depends, Oh, save him from his treacherous friends, He cannot fear his foes.

Whoe'er shall at the helm preside,
Still let thy prudence be his guide,
To stem the troubled wave;
But chiefly whisper in his ear,
That George is open, just, sincere,
And dares to scorn a knave.'

No selfish views to' oppress mankind,
No mad ambition fired thy mind,
To purchase fame with blood;
Thy bosom glow'd with purer heat;
Convinced that to be truly great
Is only to be good.

To hear no lawless passion's call,
To serve thy king yet feel for all,

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